Trust Me
by nothinglikethesun
Summary: The Hound has tried to resist. But how much self control does a dog really have when a little bird trusts him blindly? Multi-chapter; first fanfic. Warning: this is/will be a slow burner!
1. A Note

Hey everyone!

Read this before you start the story (pretty please):

To be perfectly honest, I'm not great at writing; English isn't even my first language! Recently someone told me I needed to improve my writing. One of my best friends told me that creative writing is a great way to practice. So, I decided to write this fanfic.

That's why I'd really appreciate if you could take some time to review. Tell me if the story seems rushed, or if I repeat certain words a lot (I have a tendency to do that), or if it's just plain terrible (but say why!) I have to make my writing better, and this is a great audience to test it out on.

For SanSan!

nothinglikethesun


	2. Chapter 1

Sansa Stark woke to the sound of birds singing. It was unusual, this early in the morning, to hear them. And though she had once welcomed the sound, today it was grating. It was almost as if they were mocking her; they could flee this place, while she stayed trapped, a grounded game bird.

She began to stretch, but the punishment inflicted yesterday had taken its toll. Her nightgown lay heavy against her skin and moving her arms almost brought a cry from her split, pink lips. She took the nightgown off laboriously, unhappy with how its beading pressed into a new bruise on her back, and folded it next to her on the bed. Even these light movements carried unexpected pain, so she lay back down, listening to them sing.

Sansa knew that getting out of bed meant facing the wrath of the tyrant King, her once beloved Joffrey. It meant the blows and sneers of his "honorable" Kingsguard. It meant the silent weeping in her room as she inspected the bruises they left on her frail body. She turned over and groaned into her pillow, wishing she could remain burrowed there all day. Sansa had reached her breaking point. It seemed that nothing she did could abate the increasing cruelty of the King, and she ached for Winterfell and the comfort of her family, or what was left of it. Desperately, Sansa tried to focus on the birds, but the heady memory of yesterday filled her with despair.

_Sansa stood, dressed in her finest gown, before Joffrey. He menacingly leant towards her as his hand curled around the arm of the Iron Throne. The Throne glinted at her mockingly, and she wished she could snatch one of it's' swords and slice Joff's smile off. _

_It wasn't a very ladylike thought; more like something that Arya would plot. Lately, she'd been feeling a lot like her wolfish little sister. When Sansa couldn't sleep, which was often enough, she would slip from her room and explore King's Landing. Life was different at night. The air seemed full of possibilities, and she imagined turning a dark corner and meeting her savior, a handsome knight who would whisk her away. She hadn't found him yet, or rather, he hadn't found her. _

_Sansa tried to keep her face devoid of emotion. She refused to have him see her utter fear, but like the dog he was, Joffrey seemed to smell it. She bent her head down, aware of the silence in the room, save for the clanking of mail as his Kingsguard surrounded her. _

"_You look exceedingly pretty today, my lady. But I've heard reports of you wandering the castle when any normal lady would be asleep. It seems you need to have your wings clipped, so to speak." He chuckled to himself, and Sansa glanced up at the ever present Hound, who was to Joffrey's left. Of late, she'd noticed a peculiar fondness the gruff soldier had for her. The Hound sometimes called her "little bird", though she could not tell whether it was meant as a mocking nickname, or whether it had some affection to it_. _It seemed as if Joffrey was alluding to this, and Sansa felt strangely sick at the thought of the Hound sharing this with the King._

_ In truth, she was afraid of the Hound, but she couldn't help but think she might be able to trust him. Brutal as he was, he had been kind to her, and oftentimes she appreciated his acidic but honest advice about how to handle Joffrey and the court. The Hound had once tenderly wiped blood from her lip. She still had the handkerchief he had used to clean her up. It sat in a corner of a drawer, stained and ugly, but a firm reminder of his presence in her life. _

_Today, however, the Hound stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware of what was about to occur in front of him. Sansa snapped back to attention after the King delivered his punishment: "Each member of my Kingsguard will beat a different part of your body. You'll be divvied into pieces, like the animal that you are." Sansa shuddered quietly, but stared resolutely into the King's eyes. _

_Joffrey seemed disappointed at her lack of reaction, and turned to the Hound. "Dog, you can beat her breasts. They're one of a woman's most sensitive parts, or so my mother says, and I think my lady will especially enjoy you doing it." The Hound strolled over to Sansa and looked her up and down. She bowed her head, silently praying that the gods would show some mercy. She knew a blow from the Hound, even if he wasn't trying to harm her, would leave her bed ridden for weeks. He turned back abruptly to the King with a snarl. "Seeing as the girl as no tits to speak of yet, there's nothing for me to beat." Sansa's head shot up. It seemed the gods had answered her prayers, or at least the Hound had, albeit in the form on an insult. He walked back to the King's side as Joff snorted appreciatively. "Begin." Joffrey waved his hand and Sansa felt a Knight grab her arm roughly. She closed her eyes in preparation for the pain._

_It was done quicker than she would have expected. It seemed it had only been a couple of minutes before she had fallen to the floor, immobile and weeping. Joffrey raised his hand. He was satiated. Sansa knew he took his pleasure seeing her so ruined. Her clothes had been ripped from her upper body, and her breasts, though thankfully unharmed, were in full view of the men. She awkwardly clutched at a scrap of cloth, trying to cover herself. She could feel lewd stares burning into her and she worried that Joffrey would hand her off to one of them to rape. _

_The silence was broken by Joffrey's next command: "Hound, I believe my lady has had her fill. Take her back to her chambers. I believe there's an empty room next to hers'. Occupy it, and see that she doesn't wander again. I'll have you watch over the Northern bitch from now on; I know how your presence pleases her. See fit to punish her disobedience any way you like." With a bawdy wink, he hopped from the Iron Throne gaily and strolled from the room as the rest of the Kingsguard scurried to follow him. _

_Sansa kept her head down as the Hound suddenly bounded towards her, wrenching his white cloak from his back and wrapping it around her gently. "You're alright now, little bird. Let's get you to your rooms and have those cuts seen to," he rasped quietly._

_Sansa marveled at his tenderness. The Hound was a murderer; he had probably slaughtered hundreds. Yet here he was, kneeling on the floor with her. He seemed almost penitent. She realized she'd been gazing at the floor for quite some time, but the Hound was still there, staring down at her, reaching out and clumsily adjusting part of the cloak he had draped around her. He seems worried for me, she thought, and almost giggled giddily at the thought of a man like the Hound fussing over her. Sansa looked up at him and saw his eyes on her. His eyes: steel grey and deep, they were the only handsome thing about his face. They were voracious. It frightened and flattered her deeply when she saw how intensely he'd been staring. Sansa's eyes widened as their eyes met and he quickly looked away. _

_The moment was lost. He stood up and towered over her. "Get up girl, before the King comes back for you" he barked. Sansa took her time standing and bit her lip against the pain in her back and legs. The Hound shifted uncomfortably beside her. He reached out to help her, but pulled back abruptly for seemingly no reason. When she was finally up, she turned towards him. "I need your arm to help me walk," Sansa whispered quietly, partially afraid of his response, partially ashamed that he would think her weak and silly. Sansa didn't know why, but she felt some need to impress the Hound. Perhaps she wanted to show him that his brief displays of affection weren't wasted on the stupid girl he obviously thought she was. He grunted and held his arm out hesitantly. As she grasped it, Sansa felt the strong muscle underneath his chain mail. He could have snapped her body in an instant if he wanted to, but for some reason he hadn't yet. She was glad to have him to lean on, but his pace was still too quick for her and she stumbled twice. The walk was silent; the Hound seemed like he had forgotten about her and was only intent on viewing his new chambers. _

_As they reached her chamber, he dropped her arm as if she was on fire, and turned to stride down the hallway. Sansa knew that she had to say something, anything. The way he had treated her was unlike anyone else in King's Landing. Letting him walk away meant being definitively alone. "Wait, good Ser!" Sansa called after him. Her voice was shaky and childish, thick from weeping. _

_Sansa knew she'd said exactly the wrong thing as soon as it was out of her mouth. He turned, and his eyes were dark and uncaring. His upper lip curled in a snarl, and she felt like running away. He was ferocious, a true beast. Any affection she might have seen was eradicated. "I'm not a Ser, and I've bloody well told you a thousand times. What is it girl?" He strode back towards her purposefully and grabbed her arms with his huge hands. They dug into the newly made bruises and she cried out. Sansa winced and turned away from his face, turned away from him, desperate not to see the hideous burn. "I said, what is it girl?" he mockingly growled. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" The Hound leaned in close to her ear, snarling softly. _

_Sansa turned her head and did the bravest thing she'd ever done in her entire life. She reached up and cupped his cheek, staring once again into his eyes, into his face, as hideously burned as it was. Her hand gently curved around his jaw, and she rested her fingers lightly there. Sansa saw his eyes go wide, but instead of letting go, he clung tighter to her arms. A faraway part of her mind told her that his grip would leave another bruise, that what she had done was not ladylike, was impulsive, was wrong. Yet Sansa had done it anyway. She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face, darting back to his eyes every now and then. She saw that look in his eyes returning. There was a longing in his look, that she could see for sure. She was strangely pleased to see how her touch had affected him. Sansa felt him shift towards her, clutching her against him._

_Locked in this strange embrace, Sansa felt safer than she had for some time in King's Landing. His face moved closer to her and the tips of their noses touched. She smiled shyly and instinctively closed her eyes...a door slammed from down the hallway, and the Hound sprung away from her, guilt visible on his face._ _Though the footsteps were fading away, walking in the opposite direction, the Hound had resumed a stoic expression and was looking anywhere but at Sansa. "Thank you for the cloak", she whispered softly, moving towards him as if to touch his arm. _

_"Don't fuckin' thank me. Don't fuckin' do that again." The violence in his tone surprised her, and she shrunk back. He turned on his heels and rushed away, leaving Sansa alone with her injuries._ _She walked back into her empty room and sobbed until a maid came and dressed her wounds. _

Sansa had been crushed by that moment, but she didn't know why. Part of her was shocked at herself, that she would ever voluntarily touch the Hound. He could be so malicious, so harsh. Yet part of her relished the moment, replayed his surprise, the feeling of his body against her, and most of all his eyes. The Hound had been kind to her, as kind as he could be. His rejection stung more than she thought possible. _I thought one person cared; I thought one person still valued me. No, perhaps it was just pity. _

Sansa shut her eyelids even tighter, but she couldn't stop the tears from leaking out.


	3. Chapter 2

"Seven hells." Sandor Clegane was crouched by his window, a bottle of cheap wine in hand. He hadn't slept all night, though he'd been drinking for most of it. What had happened yesterday had shaken him to his core. He had tried to sleep, of course he'd fucking tried! But every time, her beautiful face came to him, those big Tully blue eyes and the flaming hair he yearned to reach out and touch. His new chambers were luxurious, better than any he had ever lived in.

But it was pure torture having the little bird next door. He shook his head, muttering unintelligibly. The shit of a King had been particularly vicious yesterday, ordering the Kingsguard to beat the little bird. Each blow was a wound to him as well; he turned his head for the most violent ones, but her screams destroyed him. He longed to take his sword and plunge it into each member of the Kingsguard, twisting it into their guts and watching them die. However, he doubted their deaths would truly quell his fury at what they'd done to Sansa Stark.

Sandor didn't know when he'd fallen in love with her. Was that what to call it? Sandor had never been in love, so it was nearly impossible for him to figure out. It seemed an equal mix of obsession, and pity, and lust, and worship, so for now, he had simply dubbed the feeling: love.

Love. Still a funny thing for him to imagine, an idea found in fairy tales, but never in real life. Never for a monster like himself. The only love he had known was love of the battle, love of losing yourself in slaughter and death, and hearing the cries of your fallen enemies. With a face like his, that was the only love he hoped to know. Sandor had never courted a woman; what was the point? He fucked women, but only whores, and dreaded that moment when they saw the beast they had to service. Their lascivious smiles turned into open disgust, but Sandor had learned to ignore it. They were something he used for pleasure, just as he used his sword for the pleasure of seeing a man die.

Yet when he first saw the Stark girl, something changed within him. When he rode into Winterfell accompanying the young Prince, the first thing he saw was that cascading auburn hair. It stood out like a wild fire in the bleak North. Joffrey turned to him and whispered the names of the Stark family to him, sniggering that they were as dour faced as he'd expected. But even Joffrey had paused at the girl. "That's Sansa Stark. She's pretty for a Northerner. Mother said that she's a potential match for me." He had smirked and jumped off his horse, smiling sickeningly to his hosts. Sandor stayed on the horse, rolling her name over and over again on his tongue.

When he was a boy, before his brother had shoved his face into the flames, he had loved the stories of knights and their ladies. He had spent hours with his sister, reading them and acting them out. Young Sandor wanted nothing more than to add a "Ser" to his name. Disillusioned as he was now, in Sansa he saw a lady out of the fairy tales of his childhood. Her white throat, her full lips, the lean contours of her face. Her dress was dark in color, but it made her pale skin glow. She was ethereal, obviously innocent, and completely unobtainable, a true knight's lady love. He snorted to himself angrily. What the fuck was he thinking?

That night at Winterfell he drank more than he'd ever before and was wretchedly sick. Doubled over in the stables, vomiting, he felt like kicking himself. _You're a dog, and you'll always be a dog. You'd stopped believing in knights, in fairy tales. Don't start again because of some high born bitch you'll never speak to, let alone fuck. _

The journey back to King's Landing from Winterfell was even worse. Idiot that he was, he'd exchanged a few words with the girl over Ser Ilyn Payne. Up close, she was even lovelier. It was difficult to remain his gruff self when all he wanted to do was grab her and wrap her lithe legs around his waist and have her ride him. She was his master's betrothed now though, and Sandor knew how ridiculous it was of him to pine after her. So he drank and he drank, and ignored her pointedly, until the day her father died.

The little bird was helpless now, unprotected, and Joffrey tortured her week after week. It was nearing impossible for Sandor to hold back. In her, he saw a young version of himself. She was hopelessly idealistic and naïve before her father's death, and now she was crushed to learn that life wasn't a song or a story. It was a living hell. He had experienced the same brutal awakening, growing up with his ruined face.

He knew that the only way to keep the little bird alive was by giving Joffrey what he wanted: flattery. So Sandor told her as much, on their walks to the Throne Room. Joffrey often sent him to collect her and bring her back to her chambers. She was polite and respectful with him on the walks, something that irked Sandor to no end. It would have been easier, so much easier, had she treated him like a dog. He could have learned to hate her.

Her continuing kindness inflamed him, to the point where he had almost drunkenly knocked on her door one night. Before he could have made the blundering mistake, he remembered the fear evident in little bird's gaze whenever she had looked at him. Would she really want a monster like himself? No, she was just being polite, spouting courtesies like her Septa taught her to. And he was just a drunken fool like Ser Dontos. He'd gone home and fucked his hand, thinking of her. He'd tried to stop himself from doing this, but whenever he took himself in hand, her name was always on his lips. He told himself he was disgusting each time, but this form of release was the only he had. He'd stopped visiting whores when he began asking for red hair and blue eyes. Sandor had to deprive himself. To continue like this was to dream, and dreaming of Sansa Stark was dangerous.

He started to repay her kindness with a cruel, acerbic tone. Perhaps if she hated him, Sandor could safely stop himself from coming into her room and fucking her bloody. In spite of the abuse, the little bird had grown womanly at King's Landing. Sandor couldn't help but notice that her hips had begun to curve enticingly. The comment he had made about her tits yesterday was completely false; Sandor thought they would fit very nicely in his hands. Yesterday. Seven hells. After the beating, he had run to her side like a moon-faced boy and wrapped her in his cloak. Yes, she had accepted it, but probably only because she was naked from the waist up and couldn't bear for a beast to see her shame. Sandor had felt an alarming sense of happiness as he kneeled before her tiny frame with his cloak wrapped around her.

It was quashed when she looked up and her eyes widened. The usual fucking reaction. _Did you expect a smile? A kiss? _He turned away angrily. _You deserve nothing from her. You're about as gallant as a pig; you stared at her tits just like every other member of the Kingsguard. Make her realize that, and stop being so fucking nice. _She'd called him "ser" again, and his reaction was more brutal than it had ever been. He'd leaned in close, he'd snarled; Sandor had been as terrifying as he knew how to be.

The little bird had shocked him beyond belief. She had turned and cradled his face, staring at him fully. Sandor's world was turned upside down in that moment. He hadn't been treated with such tenderness for as long as he could remember. He drank in her face and for the first time, glimpsed her eyes without the ever present fear. He hardened instantly, praying that she couldn't feel it. If she did, she didn't hint at it. Unable to contain himself, he pressed her against the wall, and her perfect lips parted, and her eyes closed…he would have fucked her then and there had a door not slammed shut farther down the hall. Sandor wrenched away, shouting at her when she'd tried to touch him again. He'd almost lost the fragile control he had. The girl was just being kind, stupid, but kind. Sansa Stark would never want him and if he didn't get that into his head, he would harm her irreparably.

Sandor clutched the bottle closer and took another swig. He wouldn't let himself hurt the little bird, and the only way he could do that would be to keep himself as far from her as possible. But fuck, how was he supposed to do that when Joff had ordered him to look after her? _Just have to be your cruel and vile self…shouldn't be too hard, right? _The sky was alarmingly bright already and he could hear the birds singing. He dressed quickly, forming a skeleton of a plan. Perhaps she'd been frightened enough of him if he barged in on her and ordered her to get up. Maybe spending a day with a hung over, brutish oaf would convince her to stop being so damned kind. He shook his head groggily: did he really want to scare her, or was this just an excuse to see her in her nightshift? He stomped from his room, angry at how weak he was being. _You'll be rude to her, you will not smile, you'll be crude; the little bird hates that. _

Sandor swung open her door (the silly girl had left it unlocked), and strode in. What he saw made his mouth run dry. Sandor found he didn't have the words to rouse her. _You stupid bastard, don't just stand here and gawp at her! _Sansa was curled underneath her thin sheets, without the nightshift he had been so eager to see. He could see the faint outlines of her body, creamy and pink and soft. She stretched, her arms and legs splaying over the bed, and he grew stiff. He growled softly at the sight of her, but as soon as he made a sound, her eyes shot open. She sat bolt upright, her auburn hair splaying over her bare shoulders, and those pink lips open in shock.

Sandor took her in, flushed and beautiful and naked as her name day. He cleared his throat, as if to speak, but he was just biding time until he could say something other than, "I need you" or "I bet you've got a pretty cunt" or even "I love you more than you will ever know." The little bird spoke first. "What's happened?" Her voice was tremulous and sweet, and he choked out a response as best he could. "Nothing's happened. Stupid bird. I just came in to say, get up. We're…we're going out." As if to cement his new place in her life, Sandor sidled over, as casually as he could, to a cushiony chair near her window. "Out?" She exhaled audibly and then, to Sandor's great surprise, grinned at him. "I thought I would die if I was cooped up in here any longer. Thank you, Ser. I mean, well, I have no idea what to call you, but…thank you," she trailed off, her face reddening with every word.

Sandor chuckled inwardly at her embarrassment, but managed to keep his rather disgusted expression. "Call me Hound if you want, girl. I couldn't care less as long as it isn't fucking Ser this and Ser that. And I've no wish to take you out with me girl. Carting you along as I do my business is the last thing I want. King's orders though. I'm to spend every minute of my damned day with you till Joff deems it enough." He scowled and she shivered in her thin sheets. _Good. It's fucking working. _"I'm sorry to inconvenience you so" she said quietly. All of a sudden, she began to weep, and Sandor heart leapt into his throat. How the fuck was he going to get through this day? He ran his hand through his hair and tried to mumble his way through his first apology in years.


	4. Chapter 3

She knew it was a stupid reaction, a silly and spoiled reaction, but she hadn't been able to contain her sobs when the Hound made clear how little he thought of her. Her tears were only reinforcing his vision of her as a brat, but she couldn't stop. Sansa buried her head in her arms, curling into an upright ball. "Little bird." She felt the bed buckle under his weight as he sat down next to her.

She tilted her head up towards him and he met her gaze with a pained expression. He exhaled audibly and began to speak. "I didn't sleep well last night, and I drank too fucking much, as usual." Sansa sat up and brushed the tears off her face. She nodded for him to continue, and he quickly growled, "I'm sorry."

Sansa was touched. The Hound was a rough man, and until recently, she had been quite sure he was an evil one as well. But now she saw him in a new light. He would never be a tender friend, but he was most certainly her protector, maybe even someone she could carry on a conversation with. Now all she had to do was figure out what he saw her as…perhaps as a little sister? The idea of that irked her more than she would admit. It couldn't be true; he'd practically kissed her yesterday, and when he entered her room and saw her near undressed this morning, his gaze seemed far from platonic. For a split second, she had even feared he would try and take her maidenhead. But if he saw her as more than a little sister, why did he treat her like such a child?

_I may not have my sister's intelligence but surely it shouldn't be too hard_ _to figure him out, especially if I have a whole day with him. And I must stop acting like an immature ninny. I'm a woman bled now, and he needs to see that. _Sansa raised her head regally and said in a calm and clear voice, "I accept your apology. Now would you please turn around so I can get out of bed and get dressed?"

Sandor sprung up from the bed and stalked over to the window. "Hurry, girl. I've things to do and I won't have you slow me down." He tapped his foot impatiently. _One step forward and two steps back. He just can't seem to grasp simple courtesies! _Sansa pursued her lips and threw the nightgown over herself. In her best impression of Arya, she got out of bed and padded over. Stepping in front of him, she only came up to his chest, and he was pointedly ignoring her. "Get dressed, girl. I told you to hurry." The Hound's teeth were gritted and he stared straight ahead, refusing to look at her. "I can't go out now! It still hurts terribly to walk. You were there yesterday. You saw how badly they beat me! I still need time to recover, anyone could see that," she snapped indignantly. "Seven hells, girl! How long is it till you 'recover'?" The Hound contemptuously mimicked her and shook his head derisively.

He took a seat again, this time at the glossy, wooden table that took up a quarter of her room. Though it sat four, she had never eaten at it with anyone else. The Hound grabbed an apple that lay in the fruit basket and crunched on it loudly. "Well, girl?" He still had not glanced towards her. It always bothered her when he did this; why wouldn't he look at her? In the hall, in the Throne Room, he'd act as if she didn't exist. "Perhaps...by tonight" Sansa said haltingly. "Fuck. And what am I supposed to do all day? It's bad enough I have to…"

Sansa cut him off curtly: "Look at me." The Hound froze, so Sansa continued. "Sometimes you just stop looking at me, and I won't have it any longer. I've done nothing to deserve you ignoring me like that." She walked over and sat down opposite him.

The Hound met her gaze this time. He didn't look angry like she had expected, but strangely bemused. "Aren't you becoming a right little cunt?" He even had the nerve to chuckle. Sansa gasped, but before she could speak, he went on. "Not many are able to speak to me like that without pissing themselves. I'm glad you've somehow found a bit of spark, little bird. I thought it'd been beaten out of you." He took another loud bite of the apple. "As for not looking at you, it has nothing to do with deserving it. Do you think I deserve not being looked at for this?" He pointed to the hideous burn, and Sansa felt ashamed. It was true. She'd often turned away from his face for something that was no fault of his own, that the cruel Mountain had cursed him with. He grinned at her suddenly. "The reason I'm not looking: your nightgown's giving me a good look at your tits." He smirked and Sansa grew bright red. She looked down and saw that the gown was, in fact, see through enough to see her breasts quite clearly. "Turn around!" she shrieked.

The Hound laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, rather deep and grating, but it gave Sansa a squirming feeling deep in her stomach. He dutifully turned around as Sansa ran to her wardrobe and dressed as quickly as she could with her aching injuries. As it came time to lace her dress, her fingers clumsily slipped again and again. She usually had a handmaid do this for her, but no one had knocked at her door this morning. It was well past the time a girl usually came, and she wondered whether Joffrey had sent them away, isolating her with the Hound. He had judged, quite right, that the Hound terrified her. Joffrey had failed, however, to see that the Hound had some honor and some kindness in him. Though these things did not eradicate her fear, they certainly eased it.

Sansa could see the Hound was growing impatient but she could not manage to finish lacing the ice blue dress she had chosen. "Where are my maids?" She queried, in what she hoped wasn't a petulant voice. "Joff's sent 'em away. How long does it take you to get ready? I'm starved and I could use some more wine. Fuck, girl, hurry!" He turned around and Sansa smiled shyly, embarrassed at her lifelong reliance on being dressed by others. "I need you to lace my dress. I can't reach." Sansa edged towards him, but the Hound held up his hands and scowled. "You're asking me to lace your dress? Do I look like a fucking maid?" He rose to his feet, towering over her.

"Please?"

"Don't blame me if your pretty little dress gets ripped." His voice was thick and strained. He took her by the waist and deftly spun her around, leaving her bare back in full view of him. Sansa felt herself flush. This was more intimate than she was comfortable with, she realized. She squeaked when his fingers brushed her spine, trailing over sore and purple spots. "You've got so many bruises, little bird" he rasped, the anger palpable in his voice. She felt his coarse hands clench the fabric of her dress, and she shivered. _He could do so much damage if he wanted to_. _To his enemies, to me…even to Joffrey._ His fingers, though large, were quick with the lacing. Was it her imagination, or did they tremble slightly?

When he was done, he broke the silence brusquely. "I'm starved, girl. I'm off to fetch breakfast. Sit down and 'recover'. I may even bring you something to eat." He laughed and slammed her door shut. Sansa had half a mind to bar it shut. The Hound was so mercurial with her, and for reasons she couldn't quite grasp. Part of her wasn't sure she wanted to find out. When he returned roughly twenty minutes later with two servants who laid out a veritable feast, Sansa had stationed herself at the table, a book in hand. The Hound roared at them to leave, and they scurried off. She giggled at their expressions, and the Hound looked at her with surprise. "What's so funny?" "Just that, you're not nearly as scary as they think you are" she said, smiling sweetly. He scowled at her and took a swig of ale.

Sansa began to pick daintily at her food. She didn't have much of an appetite; the Hound made her too nervous. They ate in uncomfortable silence. She could have smacked herself. _You've always been a little, chattering bird. Why can't you find something to say?_ As she was wracking her brains for a topic of conversation, the Hound picked up the book she'd laid aside and squinted at the title. "Gods, seems like you need a wet nurse. This is a book of fairy tales. Shit, I stopped reading these when I was six. You're almost a woman grown and you still don't realize that true knights and their lady loves don't exist?" The Hound violently slammed the book down, as if to punctuate the last word. "Just because I haven't met one yet doesn't mean an honorable, noble knight doesn't exist! And true love exists. You can't deny that." "I fucking can. All men want with women is a wet cunt, and the way to get to it is either paying, or telling some dim-witted girl 'I love you.' Seems like you're stupid enough to make that mistake." He raised his eyebrows suggestively at her. Sansa could have screamed. "True love exists. I know my father loved my mother" she said icily. "Then why did he have a bastard?" The Hound retorted quickly.

Without a thought, Sansa picked up the book and flung it at the Hound's head. He ducked but she heard the impact it made against his forehead and saw a thin line of blood trickle down from a newly made gash. "Silly bird. You think you can fight me?" The Hound smiled, but it was the most ominous smile she had ever seen. "You can't talk about my father that way" Sansa whimpered softly. "Your father was a traitor, girl. I can talk about him any way I please." He edged towards her and Sansa backed away, terrified. The creaking of his boots made her heart pound; who knew what he was capable of when he was angry? Sansa tripped as the back of her knees collided when the foot of her bed and she tumbled over. The Hound lunged over her, holding her arms down. His weight pressed her to the bed, but before she could speak, he clamped one of his hands over her mouth and used the other to pull both her wrists over her head. _I'm going to die. He's going to kill me. Or worse…_Sansa writhed frantically but could barely move. The Hound's face still had that menacing, curl of a smile. "Joff would have me punish you for this cut, girl. Is that what you want?" Sansa shook her head softly, her eyes wide with fear. "I could beat you worse than any member of the Kingsguard would. I could even fuck you, here and now, and no one would ever know." He nudged her legs apart with his knee. Sansa screamed, but his hand muffled the sound. "You don't want that, do you? Don't hit me again, girl. Don't play with me. I could hurt you." He let go of her wrists and took his hand off her mouth. She had been so sure he was going to harm her, and he easily could have.

And then it hit Sansa. "You won't hurt me. You could, but you won't." She was still lying down, and the Hound loomed over her again. He looked furious, but also unnerved. "Didn't you just fucking hear what I said?" he rumbled. She sat up, her face coming perilously close to his. _I won't show him I'm afraid. _"I did. You said you could hurt me, but I know you won't." She got up slowly off the bed, wary that he would try and pull her down again.

"Now, I have some sewing I'd like to do." She smiled at him fearlessly, and she almost laughed at how confused he looked. She sat by the fireplace and picked up her needles. The Hound came over, minutes later, and sat opposite her. "Got any other books, girl?" His voice was quiet; it even sounded a little ashamed. Sansa nodded.


	5. Chapter 4

Sandor felt like he was drowning. Before yesterday, he had never been near her alone for longer than a couple minutes, and even that short time ignited him. And now that he had spent a whole day in her presence, Sandor knew he'd never been the same. He glanced up at her, something he'd been doing ever so often to confirm he wasn't dreaming this. The whole morning and afternoon had seemed like a fantasy. It made it hard to focus on the task at hand. _You're supposed to be frightening her, pushing her away from you! Why can't you fucking do that?_ Sandor knew he was failing to scare her when she commanded him to look at her.

He'd been shocked and pleased at the little bird's confidence, but realized that her order meant she thought him harmless. She had even trusted him to lace up her dress. When she had turned to him, her back bare and the curve of her hips visible, he'd had to suppress a groan. _You shouldn't have done that for her, fool. She probably felt the way you trembled to touch her, like a fifteen year old lad visiting his first whore. _He thought he'd finally gotten to her when he'd pressed her against her bed, his captive. He'd told her all the reasons why she shouldn't trust him, shouldn't treat him kindly. He needed to show her he wasn't one of the true knights she was looking for. He'd even threatened rape and pushed her knees apart, and her scream simultaneously broke his heart and convinced him he was doing the right thing.

But when he pulled away and she spoke, he knew he'd lost the fight. The little bird saw the truth, that he would never purposefully hurt her. _What she doesn't damn well understand is that if I stay so close to her, I'll lose control and hurt her anyway. I must make her loathe me. _

He looked up at her again. Her nimble fingers were busy at work but he couldn't quite tell what she was sewing. Sitting across from her, seeing her like this, it made Sandor feel almost domestic. It was peaceful, watching her work, her beautiful face scrunched up and intent on the embroidered cloth. _This is what marrying her would be like. _Sandor imagined a quiet life with her, spent in some small town across the sea. She'd finish what she was sewing, perhaps a shift for a baby to wear, and he'd lead her away to a warm bed, where_…Fuck, fuck, fuck. She'd never let you wed her, let alone want you inside her. You're a damned dog, who clearly enjoys torturing himself. _But it was a magnificent torture, Sandor had to admit.

He had to break the silence, had to show her he was still rough and gritty and she'd not changed him one bit, though the gods knew she had. For fuck's sake, he was sitting and watching her sew, like a little lap dog! "Sky's dark, so we're going out. I've had enough of this bullshit. I've business to do, girl." Sansa nodded and put away what she'd been working on all day. Sandor's interest piqued suddenly; what was it she was so engrossed in making? "What was that you've been wasting your time with anyways, girl?" He scoffed and the little bird blushed prettily. "Remember that day Ser Meryn split my lip, and you used your handkerchief to wipe up the blood? I thought I'd make you a replacement." She took her work and handed it shyly to him. Sandor wavered between ripping it up and falling to his knees with thanks.

The handkerchief was a deep red with a snarling black dog at the center. Though it was still unfinished, he could see the faint outline of a bird flying overhead. His heart pounded against his chest as he felt her watching him. Sandor set it down without a word, trying to act detached. "Time to go, little bird. I need to talk to someone in a tavern; don't expect me to look out for you, girl. We'll be heading to a bad part of town. I wouldn't be surprised if a lad tried to grab you and fuck you on the street" he rasped. She whitened in response. Truth was, if anyone tried to have her, he'd strangle them with their own guts. He wouldn't let anyone touch her, but she wasn't to know that. The little bird shouldn't have to worry about peasants and sellswords trying to lift her skirt._ Including yourself,_ Sandor thought sourly. Her cunt belonged to Joffrey, as much as that infuriated Sandor. He dreaded the day Joffrey wed her; he could almost hear her screams coming from the marriage chamber. _Maybe I should fuck her first so it won't be as painful…it'd be doing the girl a favor really. _Sandor dug his nails into his palm at the thought of being inside a warm and ready Sansa Stark, crying out his name. _But she'd be saying it in pain and fear. Never love; not for a second. _

The girl had grabbed a dark cloak and lifted its hood so her tell tale hair would be hidden. Her eyes shone, and he knew that though she feared where they were going, she was ecstatic to leave her cage. Sandor escorted her out into the hall and closed her door softly.

He knew what he was doing was risky, but it had an important purpose. Sandor did need to see a man, for information about his prick of a brother's whereabouts. It also gave him the final opportunity to push the silly girl further from him. She'd see the way everyone shrank from him, how fearsome they all thought him. Perhaps he'd even slaughter someone in front of little bird. _That'll teach her to be scared again_. With a swift movement, he picked the light girl up and swung her over his shoulder. She squealed and his cock twitched in response. "This is the only way I can get you out. Forgive me girl, that you have to be so close to a dog" he spat, hoping the bitterness hadn't leaked out along with the sarcasm in his voice. He continued, "You can either be a whore, a dead body, or a dead whore. Take your pick." Sandor felt the girl freeze up. _Could she be jealous? Idiot. Jealous of the idea of you visiting whores? She couldn't care less who you fuck as long as it's not her. _

"Your darling King has a penchant for killing sluts. I dispose of them for him. I've killed more than a few he's left alive" he shrugged, as if dragging their lifeless, ruined bodies out of the King's room didn't disgust him. The little bird didn't speak when he lifted her onto Stranger and climbed up behind her. Her back was straight and cold, tilting as far away from him as possible. _Maybe she finally realizes I'm a monster_. He felt a numb sort of pleasure, in knowing that he had possibly succeeded in making her hate him. But Sandor was still desperate to reach out for her narrow waist and pull her close. He satisfied himself by sniffing her hair, searching for the lavender scent she usually wore. The little bird's close presence intoxicated him to the point where he found it difficult to speak as he ferried them out of King's Landing. Luckily, merely scowling at the guards opened the gates, and he felt the girl exhale deeply as they found themselves on the city streets.

As Stranger steadily climbed a hill to their decaying destination, Sandor felt the eyes of the common folk on him. He could sense the hate and fear radiating from the shuttered windows and in the sound of families barring their doors. The Hound was a despised figure in the city, but he couldn't care less what they thought. The little bird had obviously noticed the reaction he was receiving. He felt a brief burst of fear that these people would seek her out in the tavern and harm her as a means of hurting him. Before he could stop himself, he fastened his arm around her slight waist in a protective embrace.

The girl shifted forward, trying to shake him off, but he curled his arm closer. "Stay close, girl. They'd take a pretty creature like you in a second if I wasn't here," his mouth dangerously close to her swan's neck as he rasped into her ear. She stopped struggling and slouched against him, her body flush with his. _Silly bird's scared out here. She'd do whatever you said if she thought it would protect her._ His hand inched upwards, closer to her tits, and rested on her ribcage. _You're a sick man._ He released her but she stayed leaned against him until they reached the inn.

Sandor could hear the bawdy chuckles of peasants and the wail of a bard as he dismounted his steed at a post near 'The Silver Tongue." The tavern had the worst reputation in King's Landing, a drunken brawl and a murder occurring on the weekly. He could sense the girl's dismay and fear as she inspected the venue. He reached up to help her off his steed, and she slipped lightly into his arms. Sandor's hands stayed clasped longer around her waist than necessary but the little bird didn't seem to care, or even notice. "What's your business here anyway, Ser?" Her voice was chilly and the Ser was obviously intended to annoy him. He grunted that he was searching for information on his brother, and she nodded tersely. Sandor felt a stabbing in his chest, the frantic fear he'd lost whatever it was she once felt for him.

_But this is exactly what you planned, idiot. _Never mind succeeding or not, Sandor still longed, no needed, to touch her, so he whirled around and grabbed her arms. "This is a rough place girl, so be careful. I may not save you to teach you a lesson" he bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "I belong to Joffrey. You have to save me, or I'm sure your King would be very upset." The little bird's voice was as dead and flat. He snarled and walked into the tavern. He stationed the girl at a nearby table where he could keep a close eye on her and instructed her to not, under any circumstances, remove her hood. Before he left to interrogate one of his brother's old servants, a spineless wretch named Billie, he called over a tavern wench. "I've hired that whore for a bit of fun tonight; give her anything she wants, I'll pay." The girl nodded fearfully, familiar with tales of the Hound's brutality. Sandor felt uncomfortable with the idea of Sansa Stark unknowingly pretending to be a whore, but he knew it was the only believable reason a woman would be with him.

Billie was sitting across the smoke filled room with a green boy he introduced as his son. "Charmed. Now you going to tell me what you know about my fucking brother's whereabouts without all this chatter?" Sandor barked, and Billie jumped into his speculation about where Gregor was and what he was planning. Sandor hadn't heard a thing about his brother lately, and worried this boded badly for himself. Gods forbid Gregor found out Sandor actually loved someone; the little bird would be dead and raped in a matter of days, King's betrothed be damned.

He glanced over at the girl. What did he feel for the little bird? He was still puzzling over this seemingly simple question. Was this what poets and bards meant when they spoke of love? He felt like a young lad, unsure and baffled, every time he was around her. Sansa Stark was undeniably too good for him, and for that he revered her. Yet Sandor wanted to fuck her as well, that couldn't be denied. Most importantly he wanted to protect her. Sandor wanted her happiness and her safety. Did he want to spend the rest of his life by her side? Gods yes. But it would be as Joffrey's sworn sword, not hers.

As much as he wanted to, he was thoroughly unable to protect her in King's Landing. He could barely protect her from himself. Sandor felt a helplessness he'd never known around the little bird. He was hopelessly drawn to her, in an obsessive way that he was sure she'd find frightening if she knew about it. Sandor sighed and ordered ale. It would be a long night.


	6. Chapter 5

Sansa took a hesitant sip of the ale the serving wench had set in front of her. It tasted awful, like raw bread, and looked like dirty water. She grimaced and glanced over at the Hound. How could he drink so much? The Hound was listening keenly to a balding, bearded man, whom she assumed was giving him information about the Mountain. Next to them both was a raven haired and blue eyed boy, about sixteen. Due to the same swarthy nose, she deduced that the boy was the balding man's son.

He was handsome, apart from that unfortunate nose, Sansa decided firmly. The Hound pounded his fist on the table, and she turned to examine him. Without the burn, Sansa thought she might have found him attractive. His face was certainly masculine, with an acquiline nose and strong jaw. His eyes were striking in that hard sort of way. But the burn was difficult to overlook, unlike a swarthy nose.

She could not deny that the ruined side of his face disgusted and frightened her. _Some of aspects of his personality are even worse. _Sansa wrinkled her nose. Rude as always, he'd barely acknowledged the handkerchief she'd made for him. More troubling, he'd seemed so unmoved by the loss of life that Joffrey caused. She was appalled when the Hound had told her Joffrey was murdering whores for fun. This was the man she was supposed to marry, who was supposed to have her. She felt like weeping when she thought of the coming wedding and bedding.

Almost anyone would be preferable to Joffrey taking her maidenhead; perhaps she'd ask the Hound. _Gods, did I just think that? _Sansa blushed at her bold idea, but it was still strangely agreeable to her. It felt like a miniscule rebellion, a secret that would comfort her, knowing that Joffrey was not her first. _But why the Hound? Why was his name the first in my head? _In truth,it had not been unpleasant at all when the Hound had held her yesterday outside her rooms. And he had his moments of gentleness. She sensed she caused them somehow, which made her inexplicably pleased. The Hound felt some emotion, whatever it was, for her. Joffrey only saw her as a plaything. _It's ridiculous though; the Hound would never take me…though he may care, he sees me as a stupid girl, not a woman. _

Her thoughts were interrupted by a melodious voice. "I hear you're the whore the Hound's hired. I feel sorry for you, my girl." It was the swarthy nosed fellow who'd been sitting with his father and the Hound. Sansa's gaze flicked back over to the Hound; he was still engrossed in conversation, unaware she was being assailed by a boy who mistakenly thought she was a prostitute. Perhaps he was being serious when he said he wouldn't come to her aid in this filthy tavern.

The boy sat next to her and downed a mug of ale. "Hound says you're a pretty lass, one he's wanted to bed for a while" he said in a whisper, smiling at her with a mouth crowded with teeth. Sansa could have slapped him, but realized the Hound was the correct person to hit.

Though she concluded that her new identity was created to keep her safe, she couldn't help but feel angry at the Hound. _He could have at least told me the part I'd be playing. His whore… what must these people think of me? And yet you would rather have him take you than Joffrey. _Sansa had never felt more thoroughly ruffled. The Hound was infuriating and intoxicating all at once, and she couldn't keep her own thoughts straight when it came to him either. With a sudden steel resolve, Sansa took a swig of her drink. _If he wants me to act the whore, so I shall. _She smiled in what she hoped was an enticing fashion at the boy. "What's your name?" she said, leaning close.

It had only been a half hour, by Sansa's estimates, but she had finished her ale and had two more cups. The room was spinning slightly, but she tried to focus on Sam as he finished talking about his poetry. She'd learned many things about Sam in this short time, like his dreams to become a bard and his disapproving father, but she'd barely said a word. Sam hadn't given her a chance, only pausing in conversation to order her ale. He droned on, and Sansa's head felt heavier and heavier. Her father had only allowed her one cup of ale on rare occasions, and she'd had far more than that. She rested her head tipsily on Sam's broad shoulder. _He's so warm! _Sansa nuzzled into him, and he stopped speaking abruptly.

"Care for a dance?" Sam gave her a winning grin, and she giggled happily. _It's been so long since I've danced…what harm could it do? _With her hood still up, Sansa followed Sam to the center of the tavern. There was a mix of commonfolk doing a jig, but Sam wrapped his arms languidly around Sansa's waist. "Take the hood down, pretty whore. I'd love to see your face" Sam's breath stank of ale, and his smile seemed lecherous to her now. She shook her head, and he scowled. He spun her round a few times, and she stumbled, intoxicated. Sam laughed, somewhat unkindly, and pulled her close.

One of his hands grasped her bottom, and she tried to wriggle free. "Stop it! I don't want this, Sam!" the words came out slow but loud. Sansa found it hard to control her tongue and it seemed no one noticed Sam's unwelcome advances. "Stop struggling, girl. I'm a better fuck than the Hound, I'll guarantee that." He chortled and his other hand cupped one of her breasts. She clenched her hands in fists and batted at his chest, but he merely mashed his face into hers' for a foul kiss. She screamed into his mouth, and he drew away.

Or rather, crumpled to the ground. Sam lay unconscious on the ground, with a huge gash on the back of his head. Sansa swayed, relieved that someone had come to her rescue.

"For fuck's sake, little bird." The Hound's rasp of a voice never seemed so welcome.

He pulled her over his shoulder again, and she watched from the lofty view as the crowd in the tavern made way. Sansa was still queasy from Sam's kiss, and when the Hound set her down in the stables, she doubled over.

"What were you thinking, you little fool? You shouldn't have spoken to him!" His voice was like thunder and her head spun from the loud noise. He was pacing around his horse, readying it for the ride back to King's Landing. "He wouldn't have touched me like that if you hadn't told everyone I was your whore" Sansa mumbled.

The Hound stopped his pacing and grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. "What was I supposed to say? Why else would a girl like you be with a fucking creature like me?"

Sansa stuttered, searching for something between a lie and a promise. She settled on simply saying his name, in what she hoped what a comforting fashion. "Sandor…" Her voice was undeniably slurred, but it seemed to have a profound effect on him. _It's the first time I've said his name_, she realized. His eyes shifted from shock to anger to that ravenous hunger she'd glimpsed before. Sansa collapsed into his arms.

_I'm never drinking again_ was her first, lucid thought. Sansa blinked and moaned softly as her eyes adjusted to her surroundings. Thankfully, it was only her room, but Sansa was frightened when she deduced she had been unconscious for the entire ride back to King's Landing. It must have only been hours earlier, for it was still pitch black outside. All she remembered was falling into the Hound's arms. No, Sandor's arms. Had she dared call him by his name? It seemed a blur, but fragments of the night came back, and she could have died of shame. Had she really played along as a whore? Had she really encouraged a lout like Sam? Sansa burned with anger at herself.

There was a creaking in the room and she saw Sandor seated at her table. He had lit a single candle and was sipping from a cask as he flipped through the pages of a book. From the golden gilding and the stain of dried blood, she realized with a start that it was her book on fairy tales that she had flung him. The idea of giving herself to him sprung into her mind again. Yes, it was shocking and disgraceful. But part of her mind insisted, he'd be kinder than Joffrey ever would be.

She felt a quiver low in her stomach at the thought of the Hound taking her. She reached below the bed sheets and laid a hand on her flat stomach, trying to suppress the uncomfortable, squirming feeling. It was then she realized she was in her small clothes. _Sandor undressed me_…her first instinct was to shudder at the thought of any man touching her while she was out cold. But Sandor was trustworthy; he'd never hurt her, never touch her inappropriately. Sansa knew that as much as he tried to hide it, he was a good man.

It was a sudden and awful realization. _I want him to hold me. _Whether it was thoughts of Joffrey taking her or the squirming feeling in her belly, Sansa wanted Sandor's arms around her. She needed to feel safe. Emboldened by the remnants of ale, she sat up to speak.

Sandor seemed absorbed in whatever story he was reading, but her movements lifted his eyes from the page. He slammed the book shut and stood up, towering over her. Sansa felt as ineloquent as she ever had in her life. The drink was still playing tricks with her tongue. "You awake, little bird? Drink some water; it'll make you feel better" he rasped. Sandor handed her a chalice and she greedily gulped the contents. He turned away again, as if to head out the door.

Sansa found her voice again, though it still sounded unsteady to her. "Sandor, will you sit by me? I need your help." He didn't turn around but stayed hovering by the door. She could have burst into tears. Abandoning all pretenses and pride, Sansa haltingly whispered, "Please, Sandor." He spun around and loped to her side, sitting in the chair by her bed.

With a deep breath, she shifted in her bed, leaving a space for him to sit down. She lifted her eyes shyly to his, and patted the space. His mouth dropped open and for a few seconds he didn't speak. "Not a good idea, girl." There was gruff ache to his voice and she shivered at the sound. "I need your help!" she said pleadingly. "Seven hells, what's the matter, little bird?" He grumbled, but gingerly sat down on the bed next to her. Sansa leaned herself against the backboard of the bed and he did the same. Though they were not touching, she felt like she was burning. Having him so close was exhilarating but alarming. If he snapped at her now, she'd lose all courage.

"Now that I'm so fucking close to you, what is it? You must still be drunk, to want a dog in your bed." Sandor laughed harshly. There was a fire in his eyes and Sansa's lip quivered. _You have to be strong to ask him such a thing. Steel yourself._

"Sandor, when will Joffrey marry me?"

He seemed surprised at the vein of conversation. "Soon, I suppose. I mean…you've bled, and all that" he muttered nervously, running a hand through his hair.

"He'll hurt me. On my wedding night, I mean. He's going to rape me." Sansa was proud that she kept her voice so steady and calm.

Sandor was silent for a long time. "Yes, little bird. The little prick will be as rough as he can when he fucks you." The sheer hatred in his voice was startling. Her next words were tentative and hushed. "Sandor, I'm so afraid. I know you think I'm a weak girl, a silly bird. But I have good reason to fear Joffrey. I used to fear you too, in truth. I thought you were a monster. I see now that you're a better man than any knight. I see that you're the only one I can trust here. It would make me feel better if…will you hold me, Sandor?"


	7. Chapter 6

His first instinct was to bury himself inside her. His second was to bolt from the room and never speak to Sansa Stark again. Sandor settled on staying as still as a corpse. How could he have fucking failed so miserably today? He'd never had any difficulty terrifying anyone before, save for this girl, this maddening girl, who was meek and fierce all at once._ The one thing you had to do was frighten the girl so she wouldn't tempt you like this. And you couldn't even do that, you complete twat!_

But Sandor had never been more pleased with his own inadequacy. The part of his mind he'd tried so hard to destroy was rejoicing. He never thought, with his reputation and his face, that anyone would ask for comfort from him. _But the woman you worship wants your arms around her…she trusts you. _

He had to admit, she was woefully wrong to think she could have confidence in his decency. Even now, as he exulted that she believed he was a good man, a dark fraction of his brain wanted to take advantage. _You could fuck her now, and she'd be willing. Convince her that it'd be better than being a virgin for Joffrey. She's a stupid girl for trusting you; having her would teach her a lesson about staying away from dogs. _

_Gods, what's wrong with you, you piece of shit? _Sandor felt sick at the evil within him; what good could the girl see? In his own opinion, he was the scum of the earth. His face was hideous, but his mind was even worse. To think of ruining a girl as beautiful, as innocent, as lovely as Sansa Stark seemed like the highest sacrilege a man could be capable of. Sandor would rather die than have that on his hands. Could he hold her without pressing further?

Sandor cautiously curled his arm around little bird's shoulder. In a split second, she was jammed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her head nestled in his chest. Her scent enveloped him with its' fragrance of lavender, and he swallowed nervously. His breath was becoming shallow and quick at such close contact. The girl's flesh was warm against his, and the feeling of her agile fingers clutching his waist almost made him groan. Pathetically enough, he was hard, and he shifted uneasily, hoping to find a way to conceal his desire. He settled on crossing one leg over the other. She stayed put, apparently oblivious to his machination.

Without a word, she took his other hand and pressed it to her waist. He coiled his fingers greedily around it; perhaps he pressed too hard, for she mewed, a soft noise that set him aflame. He was almost frantic to hear her make it again. In his dreams, the sounds she made were more than her polite chirpings. They were moans of rapture, sweet purrs and giggles.

His heart almost stopped when she pressed her lips lightly against his cheek, the side that was not ruined. She nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck.

_Does she want more?_ No, that was impossible. _All she wants is some peace and warmth from her thoughts of Joff, and gods be damned, she thinks she can find that in your arms. Maybe she believed she could find the same peace with that bastard in the tavern…_

Sandor had been livid when he'd seen her chatting with Billie's son. He justified his rage by telling himself she was a right fool and that she was endangering herself. The little bird seemed tipsy; she might reveal her identity to the lad. The fury went deeper than that though. Loath to admit it, Sandor knew it was jealousy. It was an emotion he'd felt again and again when it came to _his_ little bird.

She wasn't his though; he would never possess her in heart, or soul, or even body, if he could control himself. Joffrey would have her body; as for her heart and soul, that was reserved for some highborn fellow who would take her home.

Sandor didn't doubt that someday soon, the little bird would be rescued from her cage. Her elder brother would send an infiltrator, or a knight from the court would have the balls to whisk her away. It was agonizing to think about, alone in bed at night, that when that day came he'd likely never see her again. But running away with her flowery knight would make a happy girl out of Sansa Stark, and her happiness was paramount. She seemed cheerful with Billie's son, a green boy who was probably filling her head with fucking poetry that Sandor could never write. So he stayed his hand and let them speak.

But when the boy had touched her, and she had screamed, Sandor's wrath knew no bounds. No one was going to touch his little bird. Fuck, she _was_ his, at least for now. She was in his care, and no other man's, and he was not going to allow some lowborn fool touch those luscious tits. He hoped the gash he'd given the boy festered.

And then she'd made his blood boil and his cock twitch and his mind reel when his name, his unworthy name, came out of her sweet lips. He'd never thought to hear her say it; he didn't hear it much. He was "dog" or "Hound" or fucking "Ser." Life seemed to begin anew with her utterance of his name. He could be a better man for her, the brave knight she needed.

Sandor was frenzied then, possessed with a passion that her saying his name had wrought. When he'd laid the girl out on her bed, still unconscious, Sandor had allowed himself the pleasure of taking off her dress. It was a light blue that brought out her eyes; she wouldn't want it rumpled from sleeping in it.

_Bollocks, you wanted to see her in her small clothes. _He was sure he'd ripped the gown, he'd been so eager to get it off. The sound of it sliding off her and crumpling to the floor made him ecstatic. He reveled for a few moments over the soft curves and the long lines of her body. He trailed his fingers over her elegant neck, and even bent to kiss her head, burrowing himself into her titian hair. The color reminded him of wine sometimes; his little bird was certainly something to be drunk on.

Something had glittered in the corner of his eye. He had looked up. The girl kept a large mirror in the corner of the room, and the scene was reflected clearly in it. Everything fell apart in that moment as he examined it.

He was a fiend, crouched over a childlike, insensible maiden.

He could never be what she needed. Reality was a waking nightmare, not a fairy tale where he would ever transform into the prince she deserved.

"Sandor, are you quite alright?"

He realized he'd been quite still after she'd kissed his cheek. "Fine" he muttered harshly. He possessively tightened his hand around her waist again; he may be a fiend, but the silly girl had asked for him to hold her. Sandor could hear her breath becoming shallow.

"Sandor?" Her voice was thicker than usual, clouded with some plea. _I must be squeezing her too tight. _Sandor grumbled to himself; he was reluctant to let her go. Anyone would be, after holding a goddess. He loosened his arm and made to stand up.

Before he was even off the bed, his little bird had pushed him down again. With more grace than Sandor would ever be capable of, she climbed over him and straddled his waist. "You're not leaving." Her voice was ferocious yet tearful. Her lip shook slightly, enticingly: "Don't ever leave. You're all I have."

_This is a dream, dog. Any minute now, you'll wake up without Sansa Stark beside you. Just a hard cock and an empty bed. _

_Maybe…maybe if you touch her, you'll wake up. _It was a piss poor rationalization, but Sandor accepted it as the most logical of facts and excuses.

He crushed his mouth to hers' with such a fierceness he worried he might break her. His hands grasped her back, her waist, her pert little arse, and he groaned into her mouth like a man gone wild. His lips peppered her neck and top of her firm tits. _She didn't want this, she never asked for you to violate her like this_; his mind was screaming but he ground his cock against her center anyway, right where he knew her sweet cunt was waiting. Sandor let loose a grunt at the friction. With a rough grip, he pulled down the top of her smallclothes and took a nipple in his mouth.

"Stop!" he heard her whimper, and she wrenched away. Little bird's face was flushed and her eyes were big as saucers. She hastily made herself decent and clambered off him, scooting to the edge of the bed, one of her feet planted on the floor.

"Why did you kiss me?" Her eyes bored into him, surprise and fright mingling in the perfect blue. Sandor couldn't help it: anger bubbled inside of him at her naiveté, her childlike trust in someone who was more beast than man.

"Why do you think?"' he snarled. "You take a seat right on top of my cock and expect me to sit there, listening to you weep about the shit of a King, and how he's going to take your bloody maidenhead? Well, here's a surprise for you, girl: I want to fuck you, and badly too. How does it feel to know a dog wants your pink little cunt? How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not the damned knight you're looking for?" he bellowed. He strode over to her table and picked up the book of fairy tales. Sandor ripped it clean apart, the pages littering the floor like leaves. Exhausted and out of breath from his rant, he slumped to the floor.

His voice grew quiet, and gods forbid, somewhat pitiful. "Do you mean to tempt me with what I can never have? Is this a game you play to keep yourself entertained?" Sandor pulled the flask from his pocket and took a long swig. He was a broken man, alone on the cold, stone floor.

Sandor was aghast at himself. _This is exactly why you should have said no to holding her, so something like that didn't happen. You fucking lost the one thing you cherished in this shit stained world. _Sandor felt a bitterness seep into his heart, knowing that being out of her life, once and for all, was truly for the best. He'd go back to watching from afar, and she could try and forget the damage he'd done to her tonight.

The little bird pattered over to him and sat cross legged in front of him. The words tumbled from her mouth like a prayer. "I'm so sorry."

Sandor gaped, disbelieving. "Why in seven hells are you sorry, girl? I deserve to have my fucking balls ripped off with hot pincers for touching you like that."

"I'm sorry because I didn't realize you thought about me like that. I'm not trying to tempt you. It's just, you've always treated me like a little girl; you don't even address me by my name! It's 'girl' this and 'girl' that. How was I to know you thought of me…well, as a woman?" The little bird's voice was indignant; if the matter hadn't been so serious, he might have chuckled at her righteous tone.

Sandor growled with mixted frustration and despair. "Well, now you know, Sansa Stark. I think of you as a woman, alright. And gods, I'm sorry for what I did. I will never touch you like that again, I promise. I won't speak to you again, if that's what you wish."

"No, Sandor. You're the only person I care for here, and the only person who cares for me." She cast a glance at him, daring him to refute her statement. She continued, too weary for someone her age. "All I want is to go home."

Sandor could have wept with happiness. Even after he'd violated her trust, she sat there, hair curling round her face like flames around the sun, and told him she cared for him. It was impossible, and yet it was so. How had he ever deserved this compassion? All the people he'd slaughtered, the lives he'd ruined; what game were the gods playing to deliver to him this unearthly woman?

"I will take you home. I swear it, Sansa."

**To Colutsv: Thanks! I started learning English when I was 11, and I've come a long way I think. Hopefully I can keep improving, because there's always improvement to be done!**

**To Laura en eryn: Haha, I did update fast, but that's only because I'd been writing for days and hadn't posted (honestly, I was too scared to). Update will slow down a bit, but I think I should have a chapter out every couple days. I try and keep chapters relatively short for that reason.**

**To devilzfire: I hadn't thought about including Jon Snow (he's one of my favorites too), but now that you suggested it, I think there's a good way I could work him in later on.**

**To all my other reviewers and followers and favorite(rs?) thank you so much!**

**p.s. This is probably clear, but I have no beta so…sorry about grammar mistakes! There are most likely a few.**


	8. Chapter 7

_I've waited so long to hear those words_.

Sansa felt absolutely weightless as an unbridled joy filled her body. She reached out and clutched Sandor's coarse hands as hard as she could, intertwining her fingers with his.

"Will you really take me to Winterfell?"

She had to hear him say it once more.

"Yes, little bird. I promised I would, so I will." His voice was milder than usual. _He probably still regrets how he touched you_.

She shuddered and brushed the memory away but a niggling voice in the back of her head whispered wicked things to her. _He's risking his life to do this for you; he must be expecting something in return. Sandor told you how much he wanted you…perhaps he'll take your maidenhead as payment._

Sansa withdrew her hands from the tall man swiftly and stood up.

"We'll leave tonight." Her voice was composed yet unquestionably cold.

"As you wish. I'll go to my rooms and pack; do the same." He swept from the room and Sansa collapsed on her bed, face down. Frustrated, she beat her fists against her pillow.

She couldn't quite decide whether excitement or dread prevailed when she thought of weeks on the road, spent completely alone with him. Surprisingly, the night's events had not dramatically altered her view of Sandor. After all, he'd made clear the whole mess was her fault in the first place. She'd provoked Sandor; she'd climbed onto his lap like a wanton whore!

Sansa hadn't realized her frail and battered body would have such an effect on any man, especially a man as aloof and taciturn as Sandor. She had felt insanely flattered that this seemingly unreachable man desired her, though she knew that as a lady, she should be horrified that such he'd touched her in that manner.

In truth, Sansa was more horrified by her body's response to having him so close. Sansa feared what she did not understand, and she could not comprehend the feelings he had stirred. To say the least, the experience had been shocking. The kiss was hard and bold, and her heart had pounded wildly when he moved to her neck and breasts. Her breath hitched when he'd pressed his hardness against the most delicate part of her body. No one had ever touched her in that spot, but it seemed he'd caused a shameful wetness to pool there. And when he had taken her breast into his rough mouth, the pressure Sansa felt was all too much. The feeling was new and powerful and fearsome, and she needed him to stop before he pushed her to something she sensed was forbidden.

"You've not even started packing."

Sansa jumped up as he entered the room. Though Sandor's voice was still mild, she could sense the irritation leaking through. "I'm sorry, I was just thinking" she said bashfully.

"There'll be time enough for that on the road, little bird." He handed her a small, black pack. Sansa rushed to her closet and pulled her darkest colored dress on.

As she packed supplies, Sandor cleared his throat and began to speak. "The journey will be dangerous. There's a chance we'll be killed before we get to Winterfell, or even reach the fucking army your brother's amassing. I need to know you'll follow every command I make, do everything I say. I won't have you fluttering off for a dance like in the tavern tonight." Sandor spat the last words, apparently still furious over the debacle.

She threw her packed bag onto her bed and grudgingly answered him after a considerable silence."Alright, I'll do what you say." She paused again.

In a rush of thoughtlessness, she blurted out the idea that had troubled her earlier. "But I don't think I can go further than what happened tonight. Though if that's what you demand…" Sansa trailed off when Sandor made a strangled noise and went bright red.

"Fucking you is not essential to our escape. Did you think I was going to ask for your cunt in exchange for taking you home? Seven hells, Sansa."

He stormed from the room, and Sansa scurried after him with her pack, feeling like a complete fool.

_Of course he wasn't going to ask to have you. Now you've made him livid. _He was stomping ahead of her in the hallway, but abruptly spun round to continue their conversation in an angry whisper. "You belong to some high and mighty lord, not a killer like me. Never forget that. Now stop your chirping. If you make so much as a _sound_…" he let the threat trail off but gave her a scowl which made his whole face monstrous.

For such a huge man, he moved silently and agilely down the hall. The sky was still dark as they moved closer to the Throne Room. Sansa wanted to ask him why they were heading towards danger, but stayed silent, fearing his wrath.

When they entered the Throne Room he turned and gave her a knowing smirk. "The Spider's not the only one who knows about hidden passage ways. Happens that Joffrey has his own escape route in case the city falls to Stannis or the King in the North." He made sure to emphasis her brother's new title with scorn.

Sandor loped over behind the Iron Throne and pressed against a stone in the wall. The wall shuddered and a crevice widened to reveal a dark and dismal staircase. As soon as they entered, the wall closed creakily behind them and they were swallowed in darkness. Frightened by the overwhelming gloom, Sansa threw her arms out into the abyss and found Sandor's broad shoulders.

"Careful, little bird. I wouldn't have you break your pretty neck on these stairs."

She moved closer to him, unsure of her footing and afraid of the fall.

"You can talk now; no one to hear us. Tell me, girl, do I look the same as the handsome knights you dreamed would save you, here in the darkness? To think you almost offered me your maidenhood for this journey" he growled contemptuously, his lips brushing against her ear.

Sansa could have slapped him or kissed him. She settled for the former. Her hand resounded with a crack against his cheek.

"Must you always mock me so? I know you think I'm stupid, but I still have feelings" she hissed.

"I like you when you're wolfish, girl. Perhaps I should irritate you more often. Only fair; you've had fun provoking me." Even in the dark she could see his lopsided smile.

"You're infuriating. And after tonight, I'm afraid of provoking you; it would probably result in my rape."

Shame and anger filled his face; Sandor started the descent without another word.

Sansa was shocked at how vicious her words were, but couldn't bring herself to apologize. She _was_ unsure about how close to get to Sandor, now that she knew he lusted for her. And he was consistently rude, though Sansa believed it made absolutely no sense to be derisive to someone you wanted. _Not that I handled the situation as a lady should _she thought, exasperated with herself as much as with him.

A light flickered at the bottom of the staircase. A single torch was blazing, illuminating a horse, a dapple grey with intelligent eyes. Sandor rooted through the horse's pack bag, finding a purse with a bounty of golden coins. Sansa couldn't help but feel gleeful at the thought of escaping King's Landing with Joffrey's own money and his own horse.

Sandor lifted her gingerly onto the mare. He climbed up after her and they sped out of a tunnel. She pulled her hood up; the gloomy streets swarmed with peasants and gold cloaks, but no one dared stop the Hound. The guards at the gate questioned him about her identity, but he shrugged and said, "If the King hears how you slowed me down, it won't really matter who she is. Hard to ask questions without a head." They moved aside quick enough.

The ride was uneventful, if incredibly awkward. Sandor was still in a foul mood, and she couldn't seem to find the words to ask for forgiveness. Sansa shifted uneasily against him, unable to find a comfortable position that didn't involve leaning against him. She gave up after an hour when her eyes started to flutter wearily.

"May I lean on you while I sleep?"

"Aren't you afraid I'll rape you?" The sourness flooded his voice, but Sansa sunk back into his chest anyway.

"I trust you, Sandor."

"You shouldn't."

By the time Sansa woke up, the sun was beating down on them. The horse trotted along a stream, its hooves barely visible in the tall grass. Sansa felt Sandor's chin bump the top of her head, and she realized how exhausted he had to be. _He's ridden an entire night and half a day while you slept like a child. _

"Sandor, we should stop."

She felt him nod his assent and he guided the mare to a nearby tree.

"Don't go any fucking farther than I can see you, is that understood? I need to sleep. Wake me in an hour or two." His voice brooked no disobedience; though he was propped against the tree with eyes closed, he still managed to be commanding.

Sansa darted behind a nearby bush to make water, hoping that he couldn't hear her. _An hour or two…_She glanced longingly over at the river and sniffed herself warily. _I'd give anything for a bath. _Sansa had bathed in the hot pools at Winterfell. Washing in this cold and clear river would be just as refreshing, if not more, after the long ride. After emerging from the bush, she took a long look at Sandor. He was fast asleep and snoring softly; she could be in and out without him ever noticing. The river was definitely in his sightline; if he did wake up, she would not be defying his order.

Sansa pulled her gown and smallclothes hastily over her head and folded it neatly by the banks. She had made sure not to pack anything with laces, lest she'd need to ask for his help again.

She edged into the water. It was freezing, but well needed to wash off the grime. She waded out to the middle where it came up to her waist; Sansa dunked her head in and gasped as the chill spread through her body.

Icy water filled her mouth and she burst to the surface again, sputtering and coughing uncontrollably.

"You alright?" She heard Sandor rumble, and realized with a start that he was standing on the bank, sword in hand.

"What are you _doing_?" Sansa yelped and wrapped her arms around her exposed chest. His eyes darkened and he did not answer. Despite the frigid water, she felt like she was burning feverishly under his gaze.

"I thought you were asleep" Sansa said accusingly. Sandor chuckled, not unkindly, and dropped his sword. "Your fucking coughing woke me up. But you have the right idea, little bird. Won't be many opportunities to bathe."

In a swift movement, he lifted his mud stained shirt off his body, and bent to pull off his shoes. Her eyes widened at the sight; Sansa never seen a man so exposed. His torso was muscular but still lean. Scars crisscrossed his arms; a large and red one was splayed across his chest like a comet in the sky. The dark hair on his upper body was abundant but thinned as it traveled down his abdomen. It disappeared as it went beneath his breeches, which Sandor had thankfully decided to keep on. She gulped; a decidedly wicked part of her was curious to follow the trail of hair.

"Are you coming in?" she queried nervously.

"What does it look like?"

Sansa gaped, half disbelieving that he was doing something so incredibly improper, half shocked that she was surprisingly, scandalously alright with it. He dipped a foot cautiously in the water like a child would, and a bubble of laughter erupted from her throat. Sandor flashed his crooked smile and she felt an unfamiliar ache between her legs. _That shouldn't have such an effect on you. _The remnants of her Septa's teachings chastised her, but Sansa couldn't care less. The world right now was a river and Sandor and the journey _home_.

He bounded into the water all at once, stopping a few feet from her.

"Your head's not wet." She commented with a sly smile.

"I'm not putting my head in, it's fucking freezing!"

Sansa splashed him gleefully, soaking him thoroughly.

**So, I'm not really that happy with this chapter (it's late, work was tough, grumble grumble grumble) but hopefully you all won't abandon me. Promise the next chapter will be better.**

**To DeathByMonkees: First of all, love your name. Second of all, excellent suggestion. I'll keep the rehash to a minimum in future chapters (except when it's absolutely, 100% necessary, like when something big happens). I will also fix the chapter numbers as soon as I get up tomorrow. **

**To Kaya Nami: Your review made me very, very happy. You're incredibly sweet, so thank you. **

**To all my other wonderful reviewers: you keep me going.**

**And finally before I go to bed, I have a question: do any of you have a song that reminds you of Sandor/Sansa? This may sound a bit strange, but I feel like it would be good (creativity wise) to listen to "their" songs while writing this fic. **


	9. Chapter 8

Sansa Stark had more wolf in her than Sandor had ever imagined. To be sure, he'd always known there was a spark hidden by the demure, ladylike side of her, but not to this extent. For fuck's sake, she'd not only let him come in the river, she'd splashed him like he was a harmless lad.

The little bird was fearless around him, which pleased Sandor almost as much as it troubled him.

It was making him too fucking hopeful, something he thought had been squashed for good. After Sansa's cutting comment about the very likely possibility of her rape, Sandor had returned to his steadfast view that she was unobtainable.

Earlier last night, things had been different: the offer of her maidenhood had made it seem deliciously tangible that one day he could hold her in his arms and call Sansa Stark _his_. She'd even said she cared for him.

Anything seemed possible in that winding, dim staircase, and that was the damned problem. The girl was still too naive; she had no idea of what she risked by being so kind. All of a sudden, Sandor had the false hope that eventually she could accept him as more than a protector. It was a notion that would only spur him to hurt her, to force her to do something she'd no wish to.

Even if she did care, it was a girlish flight of fancy and nothing more. Seven hells, she probably felt the same affection for him as a lady would a dog. Good for protection and perhaps to keep her warm, nothing more.

And the proffer of her virginity only showed Sansa thought him beast enough to demand it as payment for the journey. The fact that it crossed his mind to accept it demonstrated that he needed to stay the fuck away from her.

So he provoked her. His words to her were mocking and vindictive. But gods knew, her rejection then and there was the only thing that could shatter the sick fairy tale he'd be harboring and keep her safe from him. Shatter it she had: Sandor had felt like shit.

All through the ride out of King's Landing, he was consumed by thoughts of self loathing and a bitterness that poisoned the little gentleness within him. _You will never match up to her imagined Sers, but at least you can keep the girl safe from you. She'll grow to hate you and see you for the brute you are; only then can you be free of this delusion that Sansa Stark will share your bed. _

Well, now Sandor was in a river with a completely undressed Sansa, and he was more piteously hopeful than ever. He needed her to crush the fledging anticipation building inside him, but there was no rejection or disgust in her eyes, merely a playfulness that only served to inflame him further. There was no way she wanted his touch (she'd made that clear last night), but was Sansa really ingenuous enough to think he could get this close to her naked body without fucking her? If she continued being this trusting, there was no doubt he'd violate her before the end of the journey.

He stood there, hair bedraggled from her mischievous attack, and grasped that she was waiting for a response. Sandor shook his head like a wet dog, something she found so hilarious that she doubled over in paroxysms of laughter. He couldn't decide whether to take offense or laugh along with her.

_Gods, she's too beautiful for any man. Especially you_. Sandor took the opportunity to rake his eyes over her body, imprinting the vision into his mind.

She'd done a good job of hiding herself. Sansa was crouched into the river with her arms wrapped around her tits; tendrils of hair snaked over her shoulders, obscuring his view. But there was still plenty to devour. Sandor could see the creamy expanse of her back if she turned, with its' scattered bruises that mingled his desire with fury. Her face was covered in droplets of water and her damp hair was plastered to her cheeks, but he could glimpse her full, pink lips curved into a captivating smile and eyes that made him feel like a drowned man. The river was murky enough to make out only an outline of her frame but his stomach still gave a lurch when he'd deciphered what was where. Though he'd damned near burst from happiness and desire when he'd taken one of her tits into his mouth, that was not the part of Sansa he most wanted to taste.

But lusting for her always gave way to a wave of self disgust. _Seven hells, she's a fucking child. Though she's bled, she's never had a man touch her._

_Except you, dog, _he thought with a start. _You've sullied her; might as well finish what you started. _

_Fuck, you're a sick one. You can never touch her again. _

"Sandor?" Her eyes were suddenly serious and he wondered if she'd managed to catch him staring.

"What's that matter?"

He hoped the guilt in his tone wasn't too evident.

"What are we?"

The weight of her question pervaded her youthful voice, making her seem more adult than ever. Sandor never thought himself a particularly eloquent man, but a thousand answers sprung to his lips in that moment.

_I'm a cruel dog that wants to make you his alone _seemed closest to reality, but he couldn't well bring her home if she was in hysterics caused by that declaration.

_I'm a fool that cares too much for a woman that will never love him _was accurate as well. To Sandor, his affections seemed glaringly obvious, but Sansa knew only of his lust. Sandor was not going to mention a love that would stay unrequited. Besides, she'd pity him for it, and her compassion would only heighten his own pathetic feelings.

He settled on something that was certainly true but wouldn't be passionate enough to panic his little bird.

"I'm a man who wants to make sure you no one harms you ever again." Sandor's voice was harsh as always, but the roughness in it was one of longing rather than anger. It was something one of her honorable knights would say and he hated himself for it; it would only encourage her unwarranted kindness. But he could not lie to her, even if it meant fucking over his plan.

A flush bloomed on her cheeks and Sansa shook her head. "I didn't…I only meant, if we are to travel together, what are we pretending to be?"

Sandor could have kicked himself. _Why would she care at all what you thought of this? Seven hells, she doesn't even believe there is a fucking bond of any kind! Gods, now she'll think you moon over her like a lovesick boy. _

_Which is true._

_She'll treat you with more sympathy, and what will come of it? You'll have the poor girl and leave her with a bastard in her belly._

_You have to stop this. Get her to slap you again, show her you don't merit her compassion. _

Summoning all the severity he could, Sandor turned back and waded out of the water. "I don't give a shit who we say we are. Now stop playing and get out of the fucking water."

He threw on his shirt and sat on the banks tying up his shoes. She was still in the river, staring at him with hurt but curious eyes.

"I said get out! Stupid bird." He roared. She flinched in response but stood her ground.

"Sandor, you need to turn around."

With his hands clenched in fists, he spun round and began preparing the horse for the ride. He heard a splash as she exited the river; Sandor took a deep breath, trying to bring himself to heed. Though he knew it was in both their best interests to continue this quest to make her disgust him, all Sandor wanted to do was make her laugh again.

The padding sound of Sansa's feet drew him from his thoughts. The little bird was right behind him, clothing herself. If he turned, Sandor could see perfection in human form. But the Hound in him could not leave it at that; he would rip and tear at her and take her on the right there on the grass.

His usually sure hands were trembling with a mixture of rage and lust. Sandor reached to adjust her bag on the horse and it fell onto his feet with an audible thud. _What in seven hells is in there that's so heavy? _He yanked the bag from the ground and pulled it open. _The silly creature brought a book. I bet it's a book of fucking fairy tales_. He inspected the book plate and discovered he was right. Ripping apart another treasured book was an opportunity to drive her away. Sandor turned towards her, his tongue ready to lash at her imagined imperfections.

_Fuck. _

The little bird was dripping wet and had clasped one hand protectively over her tits, the other arm draped over her cunt.

It was an excruciating torture knowing he could simply pull her hands away and finally see her in all her glory. The indent of her waist, the flat stomach, the lean legs he yearned to wrench apart. Sansa's mouth parted in a delicate O but no words escaped her lips. Her eyes flashed with panic and fear as soon as he met her gaze.

He was painfully hard when she bent down to pick up her dress. Sansa flattened it against herself, but still he did not, could not, turn away. His brain was screaming at him to turn, _fucking turn away before you do something stupid_, but Sandor was frozen to the spot. The little bird's face reddened and the color spread to her entire body.

She seemed absolutely mortified that he'd seen her, but her silence encouraged the fiend within him. _She should have screamed, she should have said something by now. Maybe the silly bird should be taught a lesson about playing around with the Hound. _He took a step towards her, slowly, deliberately, and watched the alarm flood her face. Inside him, the beast was howling to defile Sansa Stark.

His next few steps were all at once; Sandor was sick of waiting. He grasped her shoulders, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Those Tully eyes scanned his face and she finally spoke.

"Sandor, please turn around."

Her voice wavered like a frightened child. Sansa was shaking but she flicked him a pleading half smile.

Sandor released her hurriedly, heart pounding and sick to his stomach. Whatever he did, whatever he tried, he could not control himself around the little bird. _She was safer in King's Landing then she is here with you, dog. _

Sandor faced his horse again and heard the gown slide over her head. Her appeal had brought him out of a trance that would have ended in her ruin. A question resounded in the back of his mind. _Why did she not scream for me to turn right away? Why did she let me come close and touch her? _It had to be her extraordinarily innocence, for he could not fathom any other reason.

She edged beside him and they stood staring at each other for a minute or two, her wet hair soaking the thin fabric of her dusty, black dress. There was no hate in Sansa's eyes, just humiliation; Sandor wanted to shake her. How could she not dread him after that?

"We should be going. Gold cloaks have most likely been sent to find us." His words were short and devoid of emotion.

Sansa nodded, her cheeks still aflame, and dropped her eyes to the ground.

He couldn't help but laugh at her embarrassment. This girl, with her inexperience and beauty and gentleness, was the only thing he wanted in the world. Sansa had no idea that the sight she'd just given him was akin to going to heaven.

He chucked her under the chin, thoughts of inciting her hate far from Sandor's mind. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, girl. The man you marry is too fucking lucky by half. "

He almost stopped breathing when her lips pressed against his cheek, chaste and sweet and utterly out of place.

"Sansa, I'm not the knight you want." Sandor rasped, his tone resigned, trying to dampen the pleasure and pride simmering inside him.

"Maybe I am, Lady Stark." The mocking voice of Ser Meryn was unmistakable, as was the sound of a blade being drawn.

**Ok, so I'm not exactly happy at all with this chapter either, but I decided it was better to just post it then rewrite it another time! I hope it's not terribly nonsensical, but inner turmoil (and Sandor) is hard to write. First of all, I'm sorry for the long wait: a bed bug infestation in my apartment (it's as horrible as it sounds) as well as a sudden crippling bout of writer's block delayed this. I absolutely promise the updates will get faster. **

**Thank you all so much for the reviews with songs! I listened to them while writing and they kept me going. Some of them made me chuckle, some of them made me sad, and some were so damn near perfect for SanSan, it was a little eerie. **

**Shoutout to Moa-in-the-Moon: I love Flight and I have to say, you are the best SanSan writer I've ever read, so the fact you even like my story is somewhat mind blowing. I can't thank you enough for your comment. Cheers!**


	10. Chapter 9

_It's not possible. _

She blinked her eyes stupidly, but Ser Meryn remained, as solid and immovable as the broadsword pointed at her. The urge to faint overwhelmed Sansa and her legs begin to buckle. Everything faded around her except the sight of the glinting sword, bright like Ser Meryn's hideous smirk. Vaguely, she was aware something, or rather someone, was supporting her for she'd not yet crumpled to the ground.

It was over. She'd be taken back to King's Landing and beheaded by the gruesome Ilyn Payne. Or worse still, she'd have to marry Joffrey anyway; he'd torture her for this escape every day of their marriage. _Are the gods so cruel to let me taste freedom before I must return to my cage? _Sansa felt cruel hands shake her shoulders.

_Ser Meryn's going to punish you first himself._

"You fucking fainting isn't exactly helping me here, girl." The rasp of hot breath in her ear roused Sansa from the swoon.

_Sandor._

The bleakness of the situation had engulfed her so much that, for a moment, she'd forgotten his presence. But his voice made the earlier desperation dissolve in an instant.

Sandor had said he would never let anyone hurt her again, with such passion and hunger that it made her giddy. After that declaration, Sansa knew she'd never trust a single soul more than Sandor Clegane, though he remained perplexing and volatile. Yes, he cared for her in a way she did not fully understand, but Sansa understood enough that he would always protect her.

She knew now, in her bones, that they would escape alive. They merely had to accomplish it without shedding their own blood. _You must be useful and clever;_ _if Sandor is harmed it'll be your fault._

Sansa took an uncharacteristically strategic look at their position. One of Sandor's hands was wrapped round her waist, still propping her body up. The other wielded his own sword; he must have drawn it while she was indisposed.

She'd barely had time to think before Ser Meryn spoke.

"I don't think the King will be pleased that his dog fucked his future bride." Ser Meryn snarled, spittle landing dangerously close to them.

With a peculiar surge of courage, Sansa lifted her chin haughtily at him. "I'd sooner have the Hound than your precious King, Ser Meryn."

She felt Sandor bristle beside her and hoped she hadn't offended him somehow. It was a lewd thing to say, but Sansa wanted to show Meryn she wasn't frightened of him anymore.

_And it's the truth, isn't it?_

Sandor's grip around her waist had tightened markedly as the result of her comment. Clearly he wasn't pleased with the ridiculous outburst.

Meryn's mouth gaped in shock, but he quickly recovered and he called her an unrepeatable name. Sansa was prepared to denounce his knighthood in response, but Sandor moved his hand from her waist and pressed it over her mouth to silence her. She shoved it away indignantly but stayed quiet.

"How many of you bastards are there?" Sandor's grating voice was startlingly composed.

Ser Meryn's sickening smile wavered at the question but he continued smoothly.

"Enough so if I shouted they'd come running. Don't trifle with me, dog. Give me the bitch and I might let you flee."

A grin spread slowly on Sandor's face.

"You're bluffing. Are you alone? You fucking fool. " Sandor threw his head back for a blood curdling laugh that almost made Sansa sorry for Ser Meryn.

Almost.

"Give me the damn girl, or the King will hear of this!"

Sandor, never taking his eyes off Meryn, addressed her in a low voice. "I want you to run, little bird. Run and hide. I will find you."

She stood there a moment, drinking in his face. _What if this is the last time you see him? Though Sandor's stronger, what does it matter without any armor to protect him?_

"Fucking run!" he shouted brusquely.

She'd barely turned to spring away when she heard the clash of blades and grunts of exertion. Sansa ran parallel to the river until she was so out of breath she thought she might collapse. Her lungs burned every step she took, so she stumbled over to a cluster of nearby trees. Trying hard to overcome her squeamishness, Sansa flattened herself into the muddy ground and struggled to stifle her gulps for air. The chirping of birds was the lone sound that filled the spot for what seemed like an eternity; she'd give anything to hear Sandor's voice instead, even if what he said was a cruel jab or a crude comment.

Though her back ached severely and pangs racked her stomach, she hardly paid any attention to them. The only thoughts that ran through her mind were focused on Sandor.

She'd never thought about the possibility of Sandor's death. _Would it even have bothered you if he died when you first came to King's Landing? _Sansa shook her head miserably. Silly bird that she was, she'd pegged him a brute and a killer.

Which he was, admittedly.

But Sansa hadn't seen that there was so much more to him. Sandor was, in short, her savior. It was a strange thing to admit, but he was in many ways the honorable knight she'd always wanted to save her, as much as he tried to deny it. Part of the knight's code was defending the weak and always telling the truth. Though he was an explosive man, coarse and violent, Sandor was devoted to her protection and had told her once that 'a hound will die for you, but never lie to you.'

There was simply the matter of his feelings towards her.

It was entirely improper that he lusted for her, as adult and pleased as it made Sansa feel. But the reality of it was, though Sandor thought she had the body of a woman, she knew he still considered her a spoiled, defenseless little girl. And that upset Sansa more than she wanted to admit. She'd never confess it to anyone, but part of her wanted his respect, his appreciation, maybe even his adoration.

Sansa had worried immensely he would shout at her when he'd turned and seen her naked. Though it wasn't even her fault, the knot in her tummy had tightened when he'd walked towards her and grabbed her arms. For one terrifying, exhilarating moment Sansa thought Sandor was going to kiss her. But he didn't, so she asked him to turn around and he had. He'd made a kind comment to ease her shame; it was apparent that though his body might respond, Sandor really had no wish to further things with a stupid little bird.

Though that thought had made her unpredictably devastated, it mattered not a whit to her now. All she wanted was for Sandor to stay alive and unscathed.

Never a particularly religious girl, Sansa bowed her head anyway and prayed feverishly to her father's gods. The wind whistled through the grove and the branches swayed, but Sandor did not appear.

_It's hopeless. It's been too long. _

Sansa buried her face into her muddy hands and wept freely.

"You know, if I was dead, Meryn could easily find you with all this noise."

Sandor's twisted face was the most welcome sight she'd ever seen. Seated on their dappled mare, he was covered in blood and smiling broadly. He was leading another horse, a black stallion, by the reins. Sansa leapt to her feet, specks of mud flying off her dress.

"Why are you joking about something like that? I thought you were dead!" Sansa wailed angrily. _I don't care if he thinks me a child; he can't laugh about something so terrible._

Surly as always, he couldn't seem to comprehend how worried she'd been. "Calm down, little bird. Most of this blood is his; the ugly bastard didn't stand a chance, even with his armor."

Sansa latched onto the first half of the phrase worriedly. "Most of the blood? Get down from the horse right now!"

Sandor grumbled but obliged. Resisting the urge to throw her arms around him in relief, Sansa demanded he show her the injury. He lifted his shirt slightly, showing her a thin slice of wounded skin. She yanked at his clothes for a better look and almost retched when her hand made contact with blood. Sansa doubled over, breathing heavily. The strange pain in her stomach and lower back had returned and each throb made her more nauseous. When she straightened up, Sandor was staring at her carefully.

"It's only a scratch; don't dirty your hands on me, girl. Come on, there must be an inn nearby and I'd like to get there before nightfall."

Sansa gawked at him. _An inn? Was he mad? _"Joffrey's probably sent every gold cloak and knight out to look for us, and you want to go right to an inn, the first place they'll look?"

"Meryn wasn't even looking for us, girl. With a sword at his throat, a man will confess anything. Joff sent him out to slaughter a merchant upstream for refusing to pay some debt. There was even a royal decree in his saddle bag. I reckon no one even knows we're gone yet."

He led Meryn's horse over to her and lifted her swiftly onto it. Sansa was still uneasy at the prospect.

"Are you absolutely sure it's safe?"

"Nothing about taking you home will be safe."

They rode in mostly silence. For once in her life, Sansa was the one unwilling to talk, groaning slightly at the twinges in her body. Sandor made no effort to converse, as usual.

A shamble of an inn was in view when she realized abruptly why the pain was so familiar.

_My moonblood. _She'd only had this occur twice before, but the pain then was nothing compared to this.

She glanced over at Sandor who'd been warily watching her. _This is why he insisted on an inn…he thinks I'm sick. _Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her saddle.

"Let's head off the Kingsroad again. It's really much safer." She gritted her teeth against the pain, but Sandor still noticed her discomfort.

"If this is about the fucking gold cloaks, we'd be well gone in the morning before they could even get here, girl. You're sick. I won't have you sleeping on the cold ground."

Sansa gulped. _Both your lives could be at stake if you stay in the inn. You have to tell him it's only your moonblood._

"Sandor, I'm not ill." Her voice was mumbled and soft, but he understood it all the same.

Sandor's response was angrier than she'd expected. "I know sickness when I see it. You're pale as death and clearly in pain. I may not be a maester, but I'm no fool."

"I'm going to have my moonblood." She rushed the words, eager to get them out of her mouth.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and cleared his throat awkwardly. Apparently just as uncomfortable with the situation as her, Sandor kept his eyes trained on the inn ahead. _Is there a flush in his cheeks or is that just my imagination? _She couldn't suppress a giggle. Her old friend, Jeyne Poole, had once said even the bravest of men were uneasy when it came to moonbloods. It was apparently true of Sandor as well. _Perhaps they feel unmanned that for once we're bleeding more than they are._

"Well, I want a proper fucking meal. And maybe there'll be some medicine for your pain in the inn" Sandor added, as if an afterthought.

There was no further discussion. After housing their horses in the stable, they entered the ramshackle inn. It was full to the brim with common folk, including a few dirty looking sellswords by the hearth devouring a delicious looking stew. The room quieted considerably but Sandor paid their unwelcome attention no mind.

The innkeeper was a plump and sensible looking woman who eyed them with considerable suspicion.

"Two rooms. Make it quick, she's not well." He cocked his head at Sansa and laid a substantial amount of coin on the table.

The woman sniffed in distaste, taking in the blood stained clothes. "Only got one room. Perhaps you and your…friend should go elsewhere."

Sansa didn't know where the audacious words come from, but she was not having this sour faced woman impugn her honor. "My _husband_ and I will take the room. Send up some water as well; obviously he's been injured and I need to clean the wound."

Certainly, the situation was not ideal, but she hadn't expected Sandor to look so absolutely furious.

**Wrote this pretty quick; they're bound to be more typos than usual. As always, I hope you enjoy. Writing this is ridiculously fun, and I just hope reading it is as well :)**

**I know the Sansa getting her 'moonblood' when Sandor is around has been done to death, but I couldn't resist. The chance to write an awkward (semi grossed out) Sandor could absolutely not be passed up. **

**Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! **


	11. Chapter 10

_What the fuck is she playing at?_

Sharing a room with a sleeping Sansa was, in Sandor's opinion, the most dangerous thing that could happen on this journey, and she'd blithely suggested it and called him her fucking husband to boot. Sandor flexed his fists, trying not to smash someone's face in. Sandor would gladly have slept in the stables, but of course she would be polite enough to share the room with him.

She gave him a questioning look and his anger only grew.

How could Sansa not see that she was in real peril?

_Perhaps she fails to understand because you act like a brainless pup around her, so damned eager for her attention and her smiles._

The little bird foolishly put her trust in the meager good left in him. Unfortunate that the Hound was already excited and howling at the prospect of her defenseless body so close to him tonight.

The bitch of an innkeeper noticed the disgruntled look on his face but took their coin without question and ushered them to a nearby table. Sansa look a seat with her ubiquitous grace and ordered some stew and a small glass of ale. Sandor growled for the same, except with enough wine to drown a man. _If you drink yourself to death here and now, the little bird will be in no danger tonight._

He cast her a glance. She was still pale as milk and wincing slightly in discomfort.

_Her moonblood_.

The ride had been terrible. It was hard enough seeing Sansa in any pain but, worse still, this was a pain that made him think unacceptable things. Each groan reminded him she was a woman, ripe and ready to be a wife. _The little bird could have children. _Gods, the thought of her bearing his child made him agonizingly hard; Sandor shifted uneasily and Sansa laid her delicate hand on his arm.

"Does your wound hurt?" She asked, all compassion and loveliness that for a minute it overwhelmed him that she'd even stooped to touch a creature like himself.

"It's fine. Leave me be."

He pulled his arm away and, with an increasing agitation, watched her face drop.

Sandor only hoped she wouldn't say something in their room tonight that would arouse him past all point of sanity. It would only take a disarming word or two and he'd be either confessing his devotion or inside her. _Most likely the latter, and without any kind of permission on her part. _The idea she wanted him was fucking absurd, but it didn't stop Sandor repeating her words to Meryn in his head: "I'd rather have the Hound than your precious King."

A serving wench brought their food and drink and Sandor ate it greedily. He took a swig of his wine and another and another, till he'd finished two cups. _The Dornish sour was not a good idea_, he realized with a sinking feeling_. How can you keep your fucking hands off her if you're piss drunk? _Sansa was still eating, in a dainty way that captivated him; her little pink tongue flicked out of her mouth and he had to look away.

Sandor took a wary look around at their fellow travelers. Perhaps it was best that he was a room with her tonight; he didn't trust this lot. All the men in the room, young and old, were gazing at Sansa with a hungry look that put him on his guard. _Bugger the fact that that's the same way you look at her. If someone's going to fuck her tonight, it's you._

Sandor dug his nails into his thigh, trying to drive the thought out of his head. _Stop it, you miserable shit, you can't have her._ He couldn't get the image of her spreading those long legs out of his mind, and the thought of her with another made his blood boil.

His jealously got the better of him; Sandor turned back to her, keen to make everyone in the room know she was his and no one else's. _It'll keep her safe,_ he rationalized, unwilling to admit that relishing in the fantasy that they were married was his primary motive. She'd done it; why couldn't he?

_Never mind the fact that your reasons for doing so are so completely fucking different. She probably hates pretending to be married to a creature like you, even for a moment._

"You alright, girl?"

She nodded in response, blushing sweetly. "I need to ask the innkeeper for some medicine and some…cloths."

"Go on and do that now."

As Sansa walked over to converse with the innkeeper, a single sellsword swaggered over and sat opposite Sandor.

Sandor, unsure of the man's intent, ignored him and continued eating. The sellsword cleared his throat several times before Sandor deigned to look up at him. He was a handsome fellow, all flaxen hair and an easy smile, exactly the type of man Sansa would dote on.

Sandor hated him already.

When the man smiled and spoke, he was straight to the point.

"Where'd you get a whore that looks like her? I'd even wager she's still a maid." He laughed as if they were old friends, all confidence and amity.

Before Sandor could respond by throttling the bastard with his own guts, Sansa had returned carrying a small package, humming obliviously. She took her seat and smiled at the man. Sandor restrained himself, aware that if he killed the sellsword they'd been kicked out of the inn. He was the one who insisted on staying there so the little bird could be comfortable. _Don't lose your temper over this and make her suffer outside._

"What's your name, sweetling?" The man grinned at Sansa in a way that made Sandor see red.

"Jeyne. And you?"

_At least she was quick picking a name._

Though Sansa sometimes acted as frivolous as a fucking fairy tale heroine, she had more sense than he'd first thought. _And she's a little wolf when she wants to be. _It seemed like every day she was exhibiting some new courage or cleverness that made him worship her all the more. Sandor only hoped that when he eventually handed her over to her family, he could somehow remain near her. At this point, the idea of living without her was an unbearably painful thought.

"Danwell. Humble sellsword at your service. Doesn't look like you need any protection with this one around though." He nodded at Sandor's bloody clothes and grinned knowingly.

"I always say, nothing like good food after a fight. Or a good woman." Danwell winked lasciviously and drummed his fingers on the table. Sansa's head shot up with a startled expression on her face.

In the blink of an eye, Sandor's sword was out and embedded in the wooden table, between two of the sellsword's fingers. The man jumped back, spitting and swearing. Sandor pulled it out, laughing darkly. "Be glad I didn't geld you, boy. Don't talk about my wife that way." The man scrambled to his feet and backed away to the wall, nodding and muttering.

Sandor roughly yanked a wide eyed Sansa up from her seat and snatched his cup of wine from the table.

Their room was up a rickety flight of stairs that he clambered up somewhat unsteadily. _You should stop drinking_, a voice at the back of his mind warned. But he kept tipping the cup back, partly in an effort to calm his nerves and dull his growing excitement. Not much made a man like Sandor nervous, but the idea of spending the night was Sansa was causing his heart to pound like a maid on her wedding night. _Pray little bird still is a maid tomorrow morning. _Gods be good, he'd somehow find a way to stay in such close quarters with her and keep his cock in his pants.

Sandor pushed open the door and as soon as the Sansa was in, slammed it shut again. _She's all yours, here and now, to do with what you will, _the Hound inside him rasped. He swallowed anxiously. Perhaps he'd been too hasty to drag them from the common room. He was a greater threat to her innocence than any talkative sellsword.

The room was cozy and dim, with a single feather down bed and a wooden chair discolored with age. A warm fire blazed; an iron bathtub stood close to the hearth, filled with water.

Sansa sat down on the bed, the soft lighting making her face more beautiful than he'd ever seen it. She looked dreamlike, as unreal as the situation. He made his way over to the chair; _you'll be sleeping in this tonight. _Sandor hoped she'd fall asleep soon; it was safer for her when she did not speak to him.

"Sandor, your wound."

_Of course she'd remember._

He ambled to the bathtub and paused before stripping off his shirt.

_This is too treacherous. Leave now before you lose all restraint and…_

"Let me help."

Sansa was already at his side before he could tell her to get away. Drawing a cloth from the bag the inkeep had given her, she dipped it in the lukewarm water. While dabbing at the wound, her pretty nose wrinkled. He used the opportunity to examine her face. Sandor could tell she felt better; the innkeeper must also have given her some remedy to ease her pain.

_She might be the only one who's ever given a shit about you._ _You don't deserve this, and you never will_, he chanted. _But you can enjoy it._ He leaned into her hand, letting himself take pleasure in her touch for a moment. Her long fingers were nimble as she cleaned away all the congealed blood.

"Is it true?" She spoke suddenly, the sound almost imperceptible under the crackling fire.

"What?"

"That it's good to have a woman after a fight?" Sansa kept her head down, but there was no concealing the raw curiosity in her voice.

_Seven hells. _Sandor wrenched away from her and threw on his shirt. His cock had stiffened at the question and he breathed slowly in and out to calm himself.

_If she's asking questions like that, she's practically begging to be fucked._

_Gods no, stop. The little bird doesn't understand these things; don't fault her for your depravity._

He walked over to the chair again and took a swig of wine.

"Yes, girl. It's good to fuck a woman after a fight, whether she's willing or not."

Sandor's voice was low and menacing, but she walked towards him anyway, unaware he was fighting the basest of urges.

"Does the wine help you sleep?"

"Why so many fucking questions?"

She winced but didn't turn away. Realizing he needed to respond, Sandor growled out a "Yes."

Sansa took the cup gently from his hands and finished it. She handed it back to him and wiped her lips, her eyes misty with sadness and drink.

"To stop the nightmares."

Sandor's chest ached. _You may have taken her away from Joffrey, but you will never make her happy enough to forget her time there._

She stepped back to the bed and pulled her dress off, not even bothering to tell him to look away. Her dress crinkled to the floor and she stood a moment in her smallclothes, flaming hair tousled and lips slightly parted. Sandor sat there, empty wine cup in his trembling hand, thanking the gods he was here and simultaneously praying he could be anywhere else.

Sansa slipped into the bed and nestled in the sheets.

"Sleep, girl." He muttered, closing his own eyes. _  
_

"Sandor…" She nuzzled sleepily into the pillows. "Come lie down."

No." It was the only word he trusted himself to say.

The little bird sat up in bed with the fiercest look Sandor had seen yet.

"You saved my life, Sandor. I…I owe you everything I have. I am absolutely not going to let you sleep in a chair when there's a perfectly good bed right here. You're being ridiculous!" Sansa crossed her arms over her chest, frustration clear in her tone.

"I'm not being fucking ridiculous. The last time we ended up in a bed together, I can't recall you being very happy, girl." Sandor sneered. _The wine's gotten to her, that's all._ He pushed his feet into the floor, trying not to bound over and taste her cunt.

"Please…I won't sleep if I know you're sitting in that awful chair." Sansa's lip wobbled and Sandor was a lost man.

He knew, then and there, that he would not be able to keep the Hound at bay.

It did not stop Sandor from lying down next to her.

**So, I completely could have posted this last night. It was ready and everything. But it was my friend's birthday, and (as a massive Game of Thrones fan), all of those invited to his party were required to play the Game of Thrones drinking game (look it up, it's fantastic). **

**Needless to say, I woke up with the worst hangover ever, and (for some strange reason) "Craster" written all over my left knee. Don't even want to try and remember why. But here is this chapter, late and somewhat unedited. Hope you enjoy! Next chapter's gonna be good ;) As always, review, pretty please. It keeps me motivated.**

**To serpensortiia: Haha, glad you liked the (non-cheesy) way of describing masturbation, but unfortunetly I didn't come up with that gem.**

**Another note (just added as of Thursday): I'm going to be away for about a week, possibly a bit more, to a place with (gasp) no access to computers. I have no forgotten about this fic tho! And hopefully will be updating as soon as I return. Content yourselves with the absolutely amazing and wonderful other SanSan fanfic on this website. Be back soon! **


	12. Chapter 11

Sansa's breath hitched in her throat nervously as Sandor lay down stiffly beside her. Any sleepiness or wine that had crowded her thoughts and dulled her senses was gone. Her entire body was alight with anxiety, satisfaction, even a queer anticipation.

_Anticipation for what?_

_Don't be stupid. You know for what._

Her stomach coiled at the memory of Sandor's brutal kiss. What he'd made her feel then was strange, even frightening. But with it came such an unfamiliar dose of pleasure. Her Septa had never mentioned anything like that feeling when it came to the marriage bed, but with Sandor, it was so powerful that Sansa almost shivered at the recollection.

_Was that why you invite__d him to share the bed?_

Sansa _had_ felt a deep pull to have Sandor close to her, in the dim, warm room. She'd masqueraded this appalling intention by arguing that her savior shouldn't have to sleep on a rickety chair. True as that was, it was the prospect of Sandor's arms around her that made her speak up.

Perhaps it was an awful mistake. He was clearly uneager, even angry at the request. Her silly question about having a woman after a battle had made him upset as well.

Sansa had been keen to hear his response though. The query was fueled by a burning curiosity that he might want _her_, as well as a burgeoning jealously at the thought of him with another woman, after another battle. Immature and envious as she was, Sansa had thrown off her dress right in front of him. She searched for some desire in his gaze.

He had merely told her to go to sleep.

_Sandor wants no temptation from a stupid girl with a woman's body._

_Gods, I'd give anything for him to see me as more than a child_.

Her mind jolted suddenly as she came to a painful conclusion.

As electrifying as his lust was, Sansa wanted Sandor Clegane's heart. And that only meant one thing.

_You love him._

In her head, she prayed to the gods to _stop _making her think such ridiculous, foolish things. But she could see it so clearly now.

_You're desperately in love with someone who cares not a whit for you romantically._

She clenched her fists despairingly in an effort not to bawl.

When had this happened? How had Sandor turned from simply her volatile protector to the man she might adore? His face alone should have prevented this happening, but somewhere along the way that had ceased to matter to her.

Was it after that first kiss? Was it after he'd offered to take her home? Or when he killed Ser Meryn for her?

Sorting out her feelings for him had always been difficult, but now they were almost too painful to contemplate. A remnant part of her, from before she had ever come to King's Landing, was undeniably aghast. _How could you have fallen for a killer like the Hound? _Her entire family would be disgusted if they knew the feelings she harbored for Sandor.

She screwed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply. _But they don't know him like I do. If only they could see the type of man he truly is, the man who has treated me with such kindness. _But why did she even care for her family's approval? That would only matter if Sandor asked to spend his life by her side.

_He'll never ask to be your sworn sword, let alone your husband._

_He will never love you._

Sansa turned towards him, unwanted tears filling her eyes. His eyes were closed but she knew he was awake. There was a certain energy about him, a tenseness, that made her feel like he could spring up at any moment. The wavering candlelight in the room illuminated the unscarred side of Sandor's face and she felt an overpowering need to touch it. Sansa stayed her hands and twisted them fretfully. There was no way she could tell him of her sudden epiphany. Sandor was like to think her even more stupid, more useless, if he knew she was sniveling over him.

_Stop it._

With a determination inherited from her mother, Sansa closed her eyes and turned onto her side, facing away from him.

She resolved then and there never to think of loving him again; _you're a stupid, stupid little bird and you've made a dreadful mistake. When you sleep and wake up, you won't ever reflect on it._

_You'll find another._

And with visions of the Knight of Flowers in her head, Sansa drifted into a fitful sleep.

She awoke with an excruciating throbbing in her back. Bleary eyed and aching, Sansa tried to think coherently.

The room was pitch black, the candle long guttered out. Out of the smudged window of the room, the sky was the same inky color. Sansa twisted onto her back and almost cried out. The medicine the innkeeper had given her to soothe the pain of her moonblood had all but faded away. Her eyes had almost adjusted to the darkness and she fumbled to feel the mattress underneath her. Thankfully, she had not yet started to bleed. Waking up in a blood filled bed with Sandor would be too embarrassing for words.

Sansa flicked her eyes over at him. Sandor looked angry most of the time, and apparently that extended to his sleep as well. Brow furrowed and snarling something unintelligible, he lay on his side, as far from her as he could be.

A sharp cramp shot through her again and an unbidden whimper escaped her lips. In an instant, Sandor was bolt upright.

"What's wrong?" His eyes were hazy with sleep but alertness and urgency pervaded his voice. Sandor groped at his hip, searching for his sword. It was missing, along with his shirt. His body was unquestionably handsome; it was hard not to stare at the muscles rippling with each movement. _He must have taken it off while I was asleep…_He had good reason. The night was warm and stifling. Though winter was coming, it certainly had not arrived this far south yet.

"It's only my moonblood." She sat up next to him, hoping he couldn't see the blush radiating on her cheeks. "I got some medicine to ease the pain, but only for a short while." Sansa put a hand on her lower back and grimaced.

Sandor nodded sleepily. "Well, neither of us will sleep while you're making a fucking racket weeping. I'll go back downstairs and get you the damn medicine."

"No one will be up" she countered, not without irritation.

"Well, what can I do to get you to be quiet, little bird?" His eyes flashed at hers' darkly and Sansa bit her lip nervously. She knew a way to soften the pain but…_Can I ask him something so familiar, so intimate?_

She nodded faintly, a quiver in her stomach.

"My handmaids…when my body hurt, they used to do this." Sansa plopped onto her stomach and awkwardly placed one of her hands on the small of her back. She kneaded the skin softly and the aches began to dissolve away.

"Could you do that?" Her voice was almost a whisper. The silence seemed to stretch for minutes on end, and Sansa grew anxious. _Sandor's going to bark at you._

Instead, she felt the warm weight of his hands pressing into her back. They grasped her shoulders, pushing down lightly. Long fingers ghosted down her spine, working their way to the spot she had shown him. Sansa knew she was reddening but didn't care a bit. Her entire body felt positively liquid.

She shuddered as his calloused hands darted over her waist and trailed upwards, perilously close to the sides of her breasts. It felt too good to be mortified; Sansa let out a tiny mew and shifted towards him, uncaring if he thought her too bold or licentious.

Sandor paused and Sansa went stock still, worried again that he'd be irritated with her. Instead, she was shocked when she felt his lips on her back. Even through the fabric of her smallclothes, Sansa could feel the roughness of them, gliding down her backbone slowly. That unfamiliar wetness was once again pooling between her legs; Sansa let out a worried "Oh!" and Sandor withdrew his mouth.

Sansa turned over on her back and stared at Sandor. His grey eyes shone eerily in the dim room; was it her imagination or had his breathing quickened?

_Can I ask him for what comes next?_

"My stomach as well." Her command sounded much braver than she felt. Her heart thudded against her chest noisily. Sandor was eyeing her keenly; Sansa felt as naked as her name day. It didn't help that her smallclothes had somehow bunched up around her knees. A panic overwhelmed her, but before she could protest, he placed his huge hand on her tummy.

Sandor drew faint circles on her lower torso and the pressure continued to grow, twisting inside her. She focused on the muscles in his arm as they tensed and untensed, the scars scattered over them like fallen stars.

Relaxing completely, she let him do his work, but the tension inside her heightened with each minute. As his fingers dipped a little lower, Sansa's hips bucked slightly upwards at the frustrating feeling. Her slight movement seemed to have an immense effect on Sandor.

His eyes flashed with an unmistakable hunger and Sandor seized her hips impatiently with each of his hands. At the sudden pressure, Sansa grew apprehensive again.

"Sandor?"

He didn't answer.

Inclining his head, Sandor pressed his lips to her stomach. Trembling from head to toe at his touch, Sansa was seized with a sudden urge to rip her smallclothes off. She could barely imagine how exciting, how good his scratchy whiskers would feel on her body. Sansa squirmed nervously at the thought.

"Feel better, girl?" His voice vibrated through her limp body.

A whimper flew from her lips in response as his mouth crawled closer and closer to her mound. _Gods, is he going to kiss me there? _Disgusted and ashamed he would find her soaked, Sansa wrenched herself away.

She leaned back on her elbows, suddenly out of breath. "My handmaids did not make me feel like this." She muttered without thinking, reeling from the sensation.

Sandor froze. He stared at her for a few moments, then spoke. His voice was low and throaty, almost a growl.  
"Like what, little bird?"

He looked more dangerous than ever, teeth bared, his hands clenched in fists. Sansa wavered uncertainly with her answer. _Gods, what have you done? He's furious._

"Like what?" He roared suddenly, and Sansa flinched backwards at the noise. Sandor, eyes flashing, leaned in to grasp her chin sharply with a hand. She could smell his breath, wine and spices rolling off his tongue. Sansa closed her eyes and swallowed, terrified.

She spoke quickly, clumsily, unsure of how to phrase the feeling.

"My stomach turns into knots… makes me shake…please, Sandor, I don't know how to describe it. It feels…"

Sandor swooped down and pushed his lips onto hers' fiercely, without any hint of tenderness or mercy.

Sansa gasped into his mouth and tried to pull away, but his hands were curled tightly in her loose hair. Sandor bent his head to her neck and placed a bruising kiss there. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

He reached to yank down her dress. The sound of the ripping fabric was obscured by a loud knock at their door.

Sandor pulled away from her as quickly as he'd pulled her to him. Though his hands were shaking and his breath heavy, he bounded to the bedside and picked up his sword.

The knock resounded again.

_Gold cloaks. Lannisters._

The innkeeper's voice was muffled through the door, but Sansa could make out what she was saying.

"I heard a shout. Everything alright? Won't have no murders nor rapes in my establishment."

Sansa was so giddy with relief she giggled.

"We're fine, thank you."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but the innkeeper somehow heard it and shuffled away with a sigh.

The room was still as the crypt at Winterfell. Sandor stood, leaning against a wall, in silence.

The sorrow and guilt on his face was unmistakable. Without another thought, Sansa padded over and took his hand, running her fingers over the blisters.

"I would have had you, if she'd not come."

_I don't think I would have minded._

If only she had the courage to say it. She wrapped her arms round his broad waist and rested her cheek against his chest.

**I'm so, so sorry for the long update time. I was traveling/when I got back my boyfriend decided it would be a fantastic idea to adopt a kitten, out of the blue. **

**I love Muffins to death, but damn, kittens are certainly hard to take care of. It's a lot of time and effort to train them and set up house for them, but it's 100% worth it. ****Also, I desperately wanted to name him Ser Pounce, but alas, it was not to be.**

**So Muffins, coupled with travel, is the cause of this enormous delay. **

**Notes on this chapter: You have definitely noticed that I keep delaying Sandor and Sansa doing anything...well, sexy. I've never written sex scenes before, so I'm a bit nervous, but hopefully in the next few chapters it'll happen. The next will certainly be oriented in that direction. Sorry for all those who thought this would be the chapter! **

**As always, review. It makes me and Ser Pounce, I mean Muffins, very happy. **


	13. Chapter 12

Sandor had done many a thing in his life to be ashamed of. He'd murdered men, women and children, stood by and watched the torture of innocents, and served a brutish boy king as loyally as a damned dog.

But somehow all that paled in comparison to how he'd treated his little bird.

He'd been given so many chances to win a smile from her, to somehow miraculously show her that he was not just a vile, lustful beast, that he could be worthy of her kindness.

And Sandor had fucked them all up, every last one. He'd abused and broken her trust, time after time. For god's sake, he'd be inside her right now had the inkeep not come knocking. Sandor had even told her as much.

Yet his little bird was still here, holding him with a tenderness that shattered Sandor's heart, painfully aware he did not deserve it. He could not deny that it pleased him, but a question burned incessantly in the back of his mind.

_Why? _Why had she not tried to flee from him? Why was she not afraid of what he could do, wanted to do? Why in seven hells did she continue to treat him so fucking fondly? He despised it as much as he adored her for it. It instilled a wavering hope in him, something far more dangerous to the journey than a fool with a sword could ever be.

Ignoring every base instinct, Sandor stepped backwards out of her embrace. Masking the emotion in his voice, he spoke in a low growl.

"Let go, girl. Now I want you to tell me true: why are you doing this to me?"

"You were upset. I…I like to be held when I'm upset, so I thought you might too."

A blush reddened Sansa's face prettily. Sandor's breath caught in his throat when the blue Tully pools of her eyes met his. _You were so close to touching her cunt…she was so close to being yours, dog. _He stiffened at the fading memory of his hands, his lips roaming over the virgin territory of her body. The mewling sounds she'd made and the gentle upwards shift of her hips were maddening.

_Gods, for once think with your head not your cock._

Not that his head was any more useful, filled with pathetic proclamations of love and gratitude for his innocent, kind, brave little bird who astoundingly saw him as a good man.

Sandor sighed and rubbed his temple to ease the headache that was coming on, but he couldn't delay this conversation any longer.

"Sansa, you know that's not what I fucking meant. I don't understand why you treat me like I'm one of those knights you love so much. Any sane lady would keep her damn distance from me. Even if she was grateful I was taking her home."

The idea that she was merely kind to him because he would return her to her family burned at Sandor more than he'd admit. But his little bird was not capable of that kind of falseness; at least he hoped. _Who knows what skills she picked up at court? This could all be an act, keeping you pleased until she reaches her family and never deigns to speak to you again. _

Sansa had no responded, but her face was as crimson as her hair now. He'd never seen her so anxious, so incredibly uneasy, acting as if he'd caught her doing something unladylike. Her next sentence was clipped but clear, in that chirping, sweet voice of hers'.

"I don't want to talk about it, Sandor. I just want to go to bed. I…I promise I'll explain everything when we reach my family."

_What in seven hells is the little bird hiding from me? And why is she suddenly acting so nervous? _His queries were eating at him more than ever now, but Sandor could see she would not tell him anything. At least not tonight. But she had confirmed there _was_ something to explain, some reason why she treated him so well aside from simply her nature.

Gods, but it was torture not knowing.

That fucking bothersome hope had arisen strongly in him as well, the hope that somehow along this journey she'd grown to like him, maybe enjoy his company. _It could be possible._

But the thought that she'd ever reciprocate his feelings was madness. _Most likely, she's realized you adore her and pities you for the foolish fuck that you are. That's why she's acting so odd._

"Let's go back to sleep." She nudged his shoulder with one of her thin hands.

_You're not getting back in there with her._

His heart gave a jolt when she took his hand. Sandor let her led him back to the bed, his refusal stuck in his throat. _It's like every fantasy you've ever had about her, _he chuckled morosely to himself.

She opened her rosy lips to speak before he could. "I know you want to go sleep in the stables, or somewhere away from me. But I want you to stay here; we don't have to touch, I promise. Just stay."

His little bird cocked her head to the side and smiled slightly.

Try as he might, the word _no _would not come out. _Fool. You'll do anything she asks._ Sandor grumbled and sat down on the bed.

Sansa gave a genuine grin and lay down facing him. Sandor moved to create a wide space between them.

He reddened like a green boy when he realized she was staring at him. "Turn over and go the fuck to sleep. Staring at me won't give you pretty dreams, I can guarantee it." Sandor snorted to himself and leaned back on a downy pillow.

"What if I want to look at you?" The words were soft but utterly unmistakable to the man who'd waited so long to hear even a semblance of them.

_Is she mocking me? _Sandor stared wildly at her, but she only yawned and stretched, curled underneath the heavy covers. She resembled a drowsy cat, lithe and languid, her large eyes half lidded with sleep.

Sandor lay down opposite her, entranced. His heart thudded in his chest. _Sansa Stark wants to look at you. Sansa Stark wants to look at your hideous, scarred face. _

"Goodnight Sandor."

Her eyes drifted shut, giving him the chance to examine her beguiling face for a few minutes.

_I worship you. I need you. I love you. _

_More than you will ever know, more than you could ever imagine, my little bird. _

_Shit, now she's making you think like a knight. _

Sandor let the sound of her breathing lull him to a fitful sleep.

Whatever game the gods were playing, they certainly seemed to enjoy tormenting Sandor.

_Of all the damned ways to wake up._

The sun streamed through the windows, bathing Sansa in daylight. She was nestled as close to him as humanly possible, the space he'd left the night before eradicated completely. _How in seven hells did she get this close? _Sandor groaned, praying she wasn't awake yet. His cock was straining painfully in his breeches at the contact of her willowy frame on his, her firm tits pushed against his chest.

Her long legs had intertwined with his and her arms were wrapped around his waist. _Well, this certainly explains the dream you had last night. _

All he had to do was untangle himself from her grasp. The last thing Sandor wanted was for her to wake up with his cock pressed against her stomach.

_You could do with an ice cold bath_, he sighed, annoyed. Sandor dreaded leaving a willing Sansa's arms.

_She's asleep, not willing. _

_She was willing enough last night, _the Hound, unwanted, interrupted Sandor's thoughts.

_Sansa just wanted an end to her pain, not for you to violate her. Fuck, she'd never been touched like that by a man before. She was merely confused. _As unwilling and bewildered as she must have been, Sandor thought he'd brought her some pleasure. The little bird squirming at his touch made him shamefully proud and wild. _If only I could make her scream my name. Then I'll die happy. _

Sansa shocked him out of his reverie with a sudden nuzzle against his bare chest, her lips perilously close to landing on one of his many scars. His stomach churned when she mumbled good morning.

Sandor almost jumped from the bed when Sansa huddled even closer, tightening her grip on his waist. _She's cold, that's all._ Sandor felt blisteringly hot wherever her skin touched his. Which was everywhere. Fighting the urge to burrow his head between her breasts, Sandor shuffled backwards. Sansa opened one eye and murmured, "Stay."

Sandor couldn't stop himself. He laid his hand on her curving waist and squashed her to his chest. His hand roamed up and down her side, tangled itself in her hair, cupped her fragile jaw. Sansa's sweet smell enveloped him, and for a moment, Sandor let himself dream.

_If she married you, every morning would be like this. And every night…_he remembered the tantalizing noises she'd made last night and his cock twitched.

_Fuck. _A red bloom colored her face and neck; she'd obviously felt him stir against her belly and had pulled her arms away from his waist in shock. Smarting from the loss of her body against his, Sandor snapped.

"What did you expect? I suppose it's good you learn now about what it's like when a man wants to fuck you. Soon as we reach your brother, he's going to cart you off to marry some lord to forge an alliance." The scorn and anger in his voice surprised even himself. The thought of some Northman pumping away between a crying Sansa Stark's legs was making him see red.

The little bird blanched and sat upright scowling.

"Why would you say something awful like that? Anyway, it's not true. Robb won't make me marry anyone I don't want to." With her arms crossed over her chest and her head held high, she looked more regal than ever. Her fierce beauty cowed him for a moment; Sandor got out of bed without responding.

"And I do know something about what goes on in the marriage bed." Sansa added harshly.

Sandor let out a low laugh and threw on his shirt. "Little bird, you're the very definition of a blushing maid. You know nothing about fucking and I doubt you'll have a husband smart enough to teach you."

"There's nothing to teach! I just lie there until my husband is finished with me." Sansa pursed her lips primly and glared at him.

She was being completely serious, he saw with disbelief. Last night, she'd been twisting so hesitantly under his touch that Sandor had realized she'd never come in her life. Now it seemed she wasn't even aware there _was_ pleasure for women in the marriage chamber.

_How in seven hells did you get yourself into this conversation? _

"There's a good deal more to it than that." Sandor clumsily fastened his sword to his belt. _You could show her, teach her_, the Hound taunted.

Sandor could see another question burning on her tongue, but she probably considered it too improper to utter. Sansa shook her head and lowered her head. As soon as she did, she let out a tiny gasp.

"What's the matter?" He bounded over and spied a fresh bloodstain, stark against the white linens. For a split second, Sandor's heart overflooded with the fear that he'd somehow taken her maidenhood last night. _You'd remember if you got close enough to Sansa to take her maidenhood. It's only her moonblood, fool._

The little bird gave him a queer look, a half smile playing on her face. He realized he'd been gaping so he sealed his mouth with a sheepish expression.

"I'll wait outside." Sandor practically fled from the room, eager to leave her to her women's business.

Sandor had readied the horses, acquired some good cheese and bread, and downed a mug of ale before Sansa walked down the winding staircase to the common room. She seemed to illuminate the dingy room, even in a dull grey dress. Sandor rose to greet her and escorted her out of the inn to the stables. She was evidently still displeased with him, silent and sullen as he lifted her onto her steed.

They rode back into the woods for cover, then pushed north again towards the Riverlands. It would only be another day or two till they reached her brother's outriders, if they rode hard and fast.

The lack of chirping was beginning to unnerve him, but after an hour's silence, she spoke.

"Sandor?"

He grunted.

"What exactly do I need to know for the marriage bed?"

It took every ounce of self control not to pull her off the side of the road and show her himself.

**Guys, I promise something will happen eventually. I apparently just like writing really really slow burning stories...but seriously, the slower the burn, the better ;) Also it seems a teensy bit more realistic (?). **

**Also, writer's block is a total bitch. Luckily, there's a huge amount of SanSan fanfic and fanart on the web to inspire me. As well as all your lovely song reccomendations!**

**Finally, I have a random question for you guys. Do you really think Sandor's alive? If so, is GRRM going to let SanSan actually become canon? Maybe I'm just optimistic but it seems kinda likely. **


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